


Into the Fire

by brihana25



Category: E.R.
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brihana25/pseuds/brihana25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A high school shooting floods the Cook County General ER with injured teachers and students, and leaves Carter trapped inside the school with the gunmen. While Carter tries frantically to help the students escape, Drs. Greene and Benton minister to the injured on the scene, leaving Drs. Weaver and Kovac to attempt to maintain some order in the midst of the chaotic emergency room. (Season 7, after April Showers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 24, 2001 - 10:12am

**Author's Note:**

> In a later chapter, there is a snippet of "A View to a Kill," by Duran Duran.

**April 24, 2001 - 10:12am**  
  
He would much prefer it outside. The Chicago winter was finally going to give up the fight, for good this time, and the smell of spring was everywhere. The inward-tilting windows let the sun-warmed air into the cramped room, bringing with it just a touch of the coolness that lingered in the shadows; the brightness of the sun blended with the harsh fluorescent tubes that were suspended in the ceiling above him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, letting the scent of the world reborn, mingled with the nostalgic smell of dust-covered books, fill his nostrils, and he felt at peace. For the first time in so long, he knew that all was right with the world, and with him.  
  
It had been a long, hard climb, but he'd made it to the top. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other, one more demon he'd battled and beaten. He would keep walking, and keep fighting, every day for the rest of his life, and he knew that. But he now knew that he had it within himself to win, and took comfort in knowing that every fight was easier than the last. No matter how difficult the task, no matter how frightening and strong the demon, he had finally realized that he would persevere. He had made it to the top of his mountain. And that was where he was going to stay.  
  
"Dr. Carter?"  
  
John Carter turned toward the voice that had called his name, and opened his eyes, smiling at the man in front of him. He was in his late 40's, wavy dark hair graying at the temples, blue eyes that shined through the wrinkles that surrounded them. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a green polo shirt, and a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, he looked exactly as John thought a guidance counselor should.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Evans. Are we ready?"  
  
"Almost," the older man answered, retrieving a small stack of files from his desk and handing them to the young doctor. "I thought you might want to take a look at these before they start coming in."  
  
John sighed as he looked down at the dog-eared folders in his hands. There were far too few. "Is this all?" he asked, hoping that the other man might have more to give him.  
  
"I'm afraid so," the older man said with a sigh, suddenly shaking his head quickly and smiling again. "But these are only the ones who've already expressed an interest. I'm sure there are more who are thinking about it. They just haven't told me yet."  
  
John returned his smile as he sat, hearing a slight creak from the old wooden chair, opening the folder on top. No, there weren't any more. There never were. In fact, this was the largest group he'd ever talked to at one time. Seven out of nearly 400. At his last stop, he'd spoken to only three.  
  
The older man left John to his files, and walked into his cubicle to wait. John tried to read the pertinent information in front of him, but soon found himself staring again out the window at beautiful day that was starting to take shape outside. The chill of an early April morning was lifting, and he could smell the dew finally evaporating from the grass and clover on the lawn.  
  
The community service had been his idea; a sort of penance for the person he'd been these past twelve months, the burden he'd allowed himself to become to them all. Kerry had agreed immediately, and he'd seen the relief in her eyes. He had suggested it in the lounge, in a meeting he'd requested with her, Mark Greene, and Peter Benton. He'd asked for time off to do it right after he'd admitted to them all, for real this time, that he was an addict. There had been tears covered with smiles on all four faces in that room, a bittersweet blend of pain that he had fallen so far and jubilation that he was climbing back up to the light.  
  
He hadn't known just what he would do to reach out, but when Dr. Benton had mentioned that he could use some help with a new medical school admissions project Dr. Romano had assigned him to, John had jumped at the chance. He knew that he was a long way from becoming a member of the faculty himself, but that didn't mean that he didn't believe in what it was they were trying to do.  
  
And that is why John Carter was sitting in a guidance counselor's office when he would much prefer to be outside. That is why these seven kids were coming to see him. All of them had expressed an interest in pursuing medicine as a career, and it was his job to see that as many of them as possible did so. He'd been to eight different high schools in the past ten days, and had so far managed to convince all but three of the kids he had talked to to apply to college as pre-Med majors. The other three had applied as Biology majors, and he still held out hope for them. Perhaps, after their first four years, they would apply to medical school after all.  
  
The bell rang, pulling John back to reality. The first of the students walked in slowly, looking around in typical teenage uncertainty, and John smiled. 'He looks just like I did at seventeen,' he thought to himself, as he extended his hand to the dark haired, slightly gawky looking young man in front of him. His legs were still a bit too long for his body, and his head still a bit too large, but he had very long, thin fingers. 'This one would make an excellent surgeon,' he thought.  
  
"I'm Dr. John Carter," he said, by way of introduction. "And you are...” He paused for a moment, trying to match the face with one of the files he had so hastily scanned.  
  
"Marc Baker," he answered, his voice slightly shaky and cracking.  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Marc," he answered truthfully. "We'll get started just as soon as the others... and here they come!"  
  
Two more students were looking through the wire-crossed rectangle in the door, and John gestured them in. In a matter of moments, four more had joined them, straggling in in ones and twos, and John greeted them all in the same cheerful manner. As he looked at their faces, so young and innocent, their minds wanting so desperately to be filled with the knowledge that he could give, he again felt the peace inside himself. He knew he could make these children into doctors. And he knew it was going to be a good day.  
  
"Well, everyone seems to be here," he began, taking his seat at the head of the heavy wooden table Mr. Evans had pulled out from the wall for him. "If you'll all take a seat, we'll get started. I've taken a glance at your school records, and let me tell you, you are all prime candidates for med...”  
  
A burst of staccato pops echoed down the empty hallway, startling everyone in the room, and John stopped. "What the hell... ?" he began. He turned quickly in his chair as Mr. Evans came out of his cubicle with an expression of confusion on his face.  
  
"Dr. Carter, did you hear that?"  
  
John stood and walked to the door with the older man. "Yeah. What was that?"  
  
"Well, it sounded like...”  
  
Another burst, closer this time. John felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, and his eyes widened with sudden understanding. "Kids! Get down! Under the table! Now!" he ordered, turning toward them. He and Mr. Evans grabbed the side of the heavy table and pulled it down, sheltering the students from anything that might come through the door. They walked again to the door, their steps as rapid as their heartbeats, and John reached out to lock it.  
  
"We need to get down too. They're coming this...”  
  
To the seven high school seniors who were cowered behind the makeshift barricade, time seemed to freeze. They heard the rapid fire of a gun, right outside their refuge, and heard and saw the glass in the door to the counselor's office shattering into a thousand pieces at the same time. One girl drew in a breath to scream, but Marc Baker reacted quickly, placing his hand across her mouth to silence her. He looked around at his fellow students, and they all read his eyes. Whoever it was didn't know they were there. And he'd be damned if he was going to let anyone tell them.  
  
After a few seconds, the sounds of the shots had moved down the hallway and Marc dared to peek around the side of the toppled table. Dr. Carter lay on the floor in front of the door, his hair littered with shards of glass, blood oozing from dozens of tiny cuts on his arms and face. He saw Marc lean around, and gestured him back hastily, wordlessly. Mr. Evans sat with his back against the wall beside the door, breathing heavily, bleeding in much the same manner as John. But as Marc pulled his head back around the table to comfort his classmates, he saw the large red stain that was beginning to seep through the tweed jacket with the leather patches on the elbows.  
  
After a few moments more, Dr. Carter appeared around the side of the table, dragging behind him the quickly weakening body of the guidance counselor. He pulled the older man to the relative safety of the hiding place, and pulled his feet up under himself, sitting back on his heels with his arms on his knees.  
  
"You kids did great," John whispered. "Now, you've got one more really important thing you need to do."  
  
They all listened, some in rapt attention, others in near hysterical states of shock. John heard the sirens echoing around the outside of the building, in the windows and back out again, and let out an inward sigh of relief. "Someone in the office managed to call the police. That's good. That means that this won't last long."  
  
He saw the looks on their faces: the hope, the fear, the undaunted trust in what he was saying. He hoped to hell that he was right.  
  
"But," he said, motioning to the silent, older man on the floor, "Mr. Evans needs to get out of here now." He crawled to the windows and looked out, seeing the police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances already forming a line in the street. "You kids are going to climb out this window and take him out there. Can you do that?"  
  
"But what if they see us?" the girl who had tried to scream earlier asked. "What if they start shooting at us out the window?"  
  
"We'll do it, Dr. Carter," Marc spoke up, placing his hand on the terrified girl's shoulder. "We have to. Mr. Evans needs us to."  
  
"Good man, Marc," John said, listening for the rapid bursts that continued to echo down the halls. They were upstairs now, on the second floor, possibly the third. This was the best chance that they were going to get. "Come here, Marc. And you two," he added, gesturing for the two strongest looking boys on the floor. "Help me pull this window loose."  
  
The four grabbed the top of the tilted-in window, and pulled as hard as they could, but it wouldn't budge. "Damn!" Carter swore under his breath, looking around quickly. He had to get Mr. Evans to medical attention, but more importantly, he had to get these kids out of this building. He ran to Mr. Evans' cubicle and grabbed the heavy oak chair from in front of his desk.  
  
"Stand back!" he ordered, and the teenagers complied. He swung once, twice, three times, and was finally rewarded with the shattering of glass around him. "You, here, now!" he called out quickly, motioning for the larger of the two boys. "Climb out. We'll pass Mr. Evans out to you."  
  
The boy did as he was told, careful to avoid the jagged pieces of glass that still jutted from the metal frame. "Marc!"  
  
Marc grabbed Mr. Evans by the shoulders of his jacket, quickly dragging the injured man to where Dr. Carter stood. It took all three boys in the room and Carter to lift him through the broken window and out to the safety of the front schoolyard. The other boy lowered him quickly to the ground, and Carter started helping the others out after him. As they were climbing out, John noticed the grass was suddenly full of students; some running out the doors closest to their rooms, others climbing out windows just as his charges were doing. As Marc lifted his foot to receive his boost from the young doctor, Carter spoke quickly.  
  
"Marc! You get Mr. Evans out to one of the ambulances just as quick as you can, you hear me? I need you to do that, all right?"  
  
"All right, Dr. Carter," the boy answered, suddenly hesitating in the window as he noticed something about the doctor's shirt. "Dr. Carter!"  
  
"Go, Marc!" he answered quickly, hearing the staccato bursts approaching the door once again. "They're coming back this way! Go!" He reached up and shoved the young man out the window, knowing that the drop on the other side was only two or three feet.  
  
Carter dove behind the table quickly, pulling his feet in just as the gunmen walked past the shattered door again, breathing a sigh of relief as they continued down the hallway without stopping.  
  
"Everyone just stay where you are!" one of the gunmen yelled, and Carter's head twisted in shocked horror. "We know where you all are, and if you try to run, we will shoot you! We've already killed a whole bunch of people this morning, and we don't really give a damn if we kill any more! Just stay where you are, and don't piss us off!"  
  
John Carter closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, tears rolling down his cheeks.  
  
Those words had come out of the mouth of someone far too young. These gun _men_ that were running up and down the halls of this school, shooting anything that moved, were boys. Just little boys.  
  
'Just little boys with very big, very real guns,' he thought to himself, looking down.  
  
That was when he noticed that he'd been shot.


	2. Cook County General Hospital - 10:22am

**Cook County General Hospital - 10:22am**  
  
The Emergency Room at Cook Country General Hospital was unusually calm. The trauma rooms were empty, as were the exam rooms and the waiting area. Curtain Area Three held only two patients, an elderly man who thought he might have had a heart attack and a young mother who had managed to catch the flu from her seven-year-old son. In Curtain Two, a middle-aged man who had injured his leg while rollerblading was waiting for his x-rays to come back. And in Exam One, Dr. Dave Malucci was taking a nap.  
  
The rest of the current ER staff, Mark Greene, Luka Kovac, Abby Lockhart, and Peter Benton, along with most of the nurses, huddled around the admit desk with the clerk, Randi Fronczak, watching the tense scene on the television news in front of them. WGN had begun broadcasting within moments of the first shots being fired, and both CNN and FoxNews had picked up their feed soon after.  
  
"Again, updating our top story," the announcer began. "At approximately 10:15AM, 911 Emergency Services received a report of shots fired inside this Chicago high school. The name of the school is currently being withheld, until the parents of the students can be notified. We do have unconfirmed reports that there are three gunmen, all possibly students at the school. It is not known at this time how many people remain in the building, but school enrollment is seventeen hundred eighty-four...”   
  
"Why do these children keep doing this?" Kovac asked. "Why do they need to kill each other?"  
  
"Who knows?" Mark answered, sighing. The emergency service receiver behind them started to beep, and he turned to the charge nurse, Haleh. "Could you get that? We need to see how many we're going to be getting."  
  
Haleh nodded, and pressed the button to answer the call. "County General. We read you dispatch."  
  
"County General, this is Cook County Sheriff. We need two docs to respond to a major shooting incident. Air Evac requested. Advise you to prepare for multiple casualties."  
  
"We read you, Cook County Sheriff. We're watching it now. How many casualties?"  
  
"So far, forty-nine. Twelve major, thirty-seven minor."  
  
"How many are coming here?"  
  
"We're sending all majors your way. We'll try to divert all minors to LakePoint and Mercy, but you may still end up getting some of them. You're the closest to the incident, County."  
  
"What is the location of the incident?"  
  
"Harry Truman High School, County."  
  
Benton's head swiveled in the speaker's direction. "Where?"  
  
"Cook County Sheriff, could you repeat location?"  
  
"Harry Truman High School."  
  
"Damn it!" Benton swore, slamming his fist into the admit desk, making everyone huddled around it jump. He pushed himself away quickly. "I'm going. Mark, who's coming with me?"  
  
"Dr. Benton, is there some particular reason you're volunteering for this?" Mark asked, exchanging confused glances with Kovac.  
  
"Yeah, there is. Harry Truman High School."  
  
"Your alma mater?"  
  
"No. That's where Carter is this morning," he answered, staring intently at the television screen as the cameras focused on a group of students carrying an injured teacher away from the building, and then turning toward the elevators. "I'm going."  
  
"Me too," Mark piped up quickly, pulling his eyes away from the scene on the TV and following Benton toward the elevator to the roof access. "Kovac, get set up for multiple traumas. Page Weaver and Finch, wake Malucci and Chen up. You're going to need as many hands as you can get in a few minutes."  
  
"I've got it, Mark," the attending answered in his thick Croatian accent. "Good luck!"  
  
"Hopefully, we won't need it," Mark answered quietly, stepping through the elevator doors. As the door closed, Mark glanced at Peter Benton, who had his eyes closed and his face turned upwards. "Peter, Carter's got a good head on his shoulders. He'll know to get out of there."  
  
"Will he?" Benton returned, opening his eyes and staring straight ahead. "Or will he stay in there to help someone else?"  
  
Mark sighed, knowing that the surgeon was right. If John Carter was in that building, and if he saw other people, children, being injured, there was no way he'd leave them in there alone. He was a damn good doctor, Carter was, and he had a good heart. There were times in the past that Mark had worried that his compassion for others and his ability to put their welfare above his own would get the young man into trouble. If there was ever a time that Carter would be forced to choose between saving someone else's life and saving his own, this was it.  
  
"We'll just have to trust him to make that decision on his own," he answered, well aware that Benton's own thoughts mirrored his own.  
  
"In that case," Benton responded, walking quickly through the opening doors, "I just hope he doesn't get himself killed in the process."  
  
"I agree."  
  
The two men ran up the short flight of stairs to the roof access door two at a time, ducking to avoid the whirling blades of the helicopter, and climbing aboard. The medevac chopper took off quickly, turning as soon as it had enough clearance, leaving the calmness of the hospital behind on its way to the chaos that had erupted at Harry Truman High School.  
  


* * *

  
 **10:26am**  
  
"Malucci!" Haleh yelled through the door to Curtain One, flipping the light switch as she did. "Malucci!"  
  
"What, Haleh? It's eleven already?"  
  
"No. We've got multiple traumas on the way in. We need you now."  
  
Dave Malucci rolled over slowly and groaned, throwing his arm across his eyes against the bright lights overhead. "Why does this always happen during my naptime?"  
  
"Your naptime be damned," Haleh snapped, suddenly very irritated with the resident. "There's been a shooting at a high school. We're the closest; we're getting the criticals. The first ones are only four minutes out. So get your ass out of that bed, get gowned and gloved, and get to Admit! Now!" The nurse turned on her heel and charged out the door, heading for the suture room to wake Dr. Chen.  
  
Malucci shot up in bed, wiping his eyes once to clear them, his mind immediately focused on the task ahead. A shooting at a high school, she'd said. The criticals were coming here. Dave sighed, and hopped out of bed, walking out of the room quickly. "So much for my slow day," he said to himself, holding his stethoscope around his neck and trotting toward the admit desk.  
  


* * *

  
"Dr. Chen? Jing-Mei, honey, we need you."  
  
"What is it, Haleh?"  
  
"Shooting at a high school. Criticals are coming in. They're about three minutes out."  
  
"I'll be right there." Jing-Mei Chen rolled over in the bed, and pushed herself to sitting, dangling her feet over the edge. A school shooting. That meant kids. She closed her eyes and shook her head, already saddened by what she knew she was going to see today. She hopped off the bed and walked out the door, quickening her pace when she saw the others already waiting at the admit desk.  
  
"So much for my slow day."  
  


* * *

  
 **10:29am**  
  
Kerry Weaver walked through the ambulance bay doors just as quickly as she could. "Ambulance rolling up!" she called out, moving out of the way as the first wave of doctors ran out to meet it. She took her coat and hat off and threw them on the couch in the lounge, not wanting to waste time with her locker. She walked back out into the corridor just as the first patient was being rolled past. Doris was giving the doctors the bullet on him.  
  
"Forty-eight year old male, name Gary Evans. GSW to the right upper chest. B/P 110/74, pulse 104, resps 18, temp 98.9. Conscious and alert. No respiratory distress. Shot about 13 minutes ago. He's the guidance counselor. A bunch of kids broke out a window and carried him out of the building."  
  
The group pushed the gurney through the doors to Trauma One, Kerry and Malucci walking around the bed to grab the side of the backboard. "On my count," Kerry said calmly. "One, two, three!" They lifted as one, and swiftly transferred the man to the gurney in the room.  
  
"Run a Trauma Panel, type and cross for four, CBC, Chem 7, ABG, spin a crit, and check his sats. Dave, start a central line. Hang two units O-neg on the rapid infuser. Get x-ray in for a cross-table C-spine and a chest film, and get a Foley in," Kerry ordered, turning her attention to the patient himself. "Mr. Evans, are you experiencing any pain?"  
  
"Yes," he answered. "My shoulder."  
  
"Anywhere else?"  
  
"No. No, just my shoulder. Where are the kids?"  
  
Kerry looked up at Doris, and the EMT answered quickly. "None of the kids in the room with him were hit." Doris took her backboard and gurney, and pushed them back out the door. "Gotta get back. See you again in a few."  
  
"Thanks, Doris," Kerry responded, then looked back down at the counselor. "Did you hear that, Gary? None of the kids were hurt."  
  
"What about Dr. Carter?"  
  
Kerry froze in place. "What about Dr. Carter?" she echoed.  
  
"He was with us, in my office. Marc said he'd been shot too, but no one could find him. Did he make it out all right?"  
  
Dave and Kerry exchanged worried glances across the gurney, and Kerry now understood why Randi had been less than forthcoming with information over the phone. "We don't know yet, Gary. There are more ambulances behind you, though. We'll let you know when he makes it in."  
  
"Dr. Weaver, labs are back," Haleh interrupted, handing the papers across the gurney to her as the x-ray tech pushed the portable x-ray machine through the doors.  
  
"Gary, we're going to all step out for just a minute while he takes your x-rays. We'll be back in just as soon as he's done." Motioning for Malucci to follow her, she stepped into Trauma One, glancing at the patient the doctors were transferring to the gurney in there. It wasn't John.  
  
"All right, labs look good. Blood loss is minimal. The bullet might have nicked the artery, but that's it. We need to get him ready for transport."  
  
"Clear!" the x-ray tech called out, pushing his machine back out into the hallway and taking the films to be developed.  
  
Kerry and Dave walked back through the doors, as did the nurses, and they converged on their patient again.  
  
"Mr. Evans, you are going to need surgery, but I want to see your x-rays before we send you up. I want to isolate the bullet before we try and move you. Haleh, call the OR. Tell them we've got a GSW to the upper right chest on the way up."  
  
Haleh walked to the phone and picked it up, dialing the number quickly. The x-ray tech walked back in and handed the wet films off to Malucci before grabbing his machine again and pushing it in to Trauma Two.  
  
Dave took the films from the envelope and placed them up on the light board. "There, Chief," he said to Weaver, pointing at the bullet on the backlit films. "One bullet, lodged under the clavicle. Artery looks to be intact."  
  
"All right," she responded, stepping back to Mr. Evans' side. "Gary, your x-rays are good. The bullet is lodged under your collarbone, but it missed your axillary artery. We're going to take you up to the OR now, and you're going to be just fine."  
  
The nurses began unhooking the cables from their monitors, and pushed the gurney out into the hall, toward the elevators.  
  
"Dr. Weaver!" Dr. Chen called out as she passed them with another patient. "Multiple GSW's to the chest and neck. Where do you want him?"  
  
"Trauma One!" she answered, looking back over her shoulder.   
  
"Dr. Weaver!" Gary Evans called weakly, and she turned back to him. "You'll let me know when they find Dr. Carter?" he asked again. "He saved my life... please... I need to know he's all right."  
  
Kerry smiled down at him. She wasn't surprised to find that Carter had saved his life; she knew that he would save anyone he could. "Yes, Mr. Evans. I'll call you personally, once you're in recovery, to let you know when he gets here."  
  
"Thank you," the man answered as the elevator doors closed behind his gurney.  
  
"Chief?" Malucci asked, looking at her in near-horror. He hadn't known Carter was involved in this either.  
  
"We'll worry about him later, Dave," she answered, stripping the yellow gown and gloves away and grabbing fresh ones. "We've got patients coming in faster than we can treat them."  
  
Malucci glanced through the admit area toward the ambulance bay, and saw that she was right. Haleh had said something about twelve majors so far, and he counted eight already backed up, waiting to be seen. He too exchanged his bloody gown and gloves for clean, and followed Kerry out to the first of the gurneys.  
  
It was going to be a very long day.


	3. Harry Truman High School - 10:22am

**Harry Truman High School - 10:22am**  
  
Carter leaned his head back against the wall again, his arm throbbing now that he had noticed the blood. He looked down again, wrapped his fingers around the ripped fabric of his light blue shirt, and pulled just enough back to give him a good view of his injury. He sighed in relief as he realized it was just a flesh wound, a slight graze across the outside of his upper arm - enough to ruin his shirt and his day, but not enough to leave any lasting damage. He strained his ears for any sound of the gunmen, and heard their voices from a long distance off.  
  
"Probably upstairs again," he whispered, jumping at the sound of his own voice. He pushed himself up from the floor, wincing a bit at the pain it caused his wound, and walked slowly to the broken window. He could see them loading Mr. Evans into the back of the ambulance now, and heard the approaching sound of a helicopter. Looking back around him at the mess in the office, the shattered glass and blood on the floor, he sighed again. "Such a waste," he whispered again, wiping the hot tears from his eyes. "Such a damn waste."  
  
He gripped the sides of the window, careful not to cut himself on the glass that protruded from it, and pulled himself up onto the window ledge. He squatted there for a moment, watching the County General MedEvac chopper land in the middle of the street. As the rhythmic thump of the rotors slowed, he saw Dr. Benton and Dr. Greene jump out. They moved away from it quickly, kneeling down beside the injured.  
  
A sound from inside the building made Carter turn. It took him a few seconds to identify the sound, and when he did he closed his eyes again. It started as one distant sound, and was picked up and echoed all the way down the hall. It was the sound of the terrified kids who had been unable to escape during the initial confusion. It was the sound of teenagers, boys and girls; the sound of teachers, male and female; the sound of pain, and terror, and despair.  
  
They were crying.  
  
Carter glanced out the window again, torn over what to do. His mind was telling him to get the hell out of there while he still could; his heart was telling him to help those kids. He realized suddenly that Dr. Benton was looking in his direction, and locked eyes with him across the schoolyard. Carter leaned out the window, and started to drop his leg to the outside, when he heard the sounds of more shots being fired upstairs, and jerked his head back around.  
  
The crying became an agonized wailing; echoing up and down the green-tiled hallways of what had been, until moments before, an average high school.  
  
Carter looked back out the window, still undecided, still torn. He could see Dr. Benton clearly now, and the look in the surgeon's eyes was unmistakable.  
  
Peter Benton heard the echo of the gunshots in the building, and fell to his knees protectively in front of one of the injured students, a girl with a bullet wound to the left side of her face. She had woken up this morning perfectly normal, and was now missing a large chunk of her left cheek and most of her left ear. Tomorrow she would wake up with healing scars, but she would live.  
  
The second the shots ceased, Benton spun back toward the building. Carter was still squatting in the windowsill, looking back at him. 'Get the hell out of there, Carter!' Benton's mind screamed.  
  
Carter again started to jump down to the ground beneath him.  
  
"Help us! Somebody help us!"  
  
It was a cry that chilled his blood and froze his body. She wasn't far from the counselor's office; perhaps she was right across the hall. Maybe she was injured; maybe she was the only one alive in the room. Why hadn't the teacher gotten them out of there? Maybe the teacher was hurt, possibly dying, maybe even dead. Carter's heart ached more than his arm as he stayed there in the window, his mind reeling from the insanity around him, trying to decide what to do.  
  
He glanced again out at Dr. Benton, and saw Mark Greene looking his direction as well. They wanted him out; it was written plainly on their faces. His mind screamed at him to do as they wanted, to get out of this building before everyone in it was dead.  
  
But someone had to help those kids.  
  
He locked eyes with his friends, first with Dr. Greene, then with Dr. Benton, and slowly shook his head. Very carefully, mindful of the shattered glass all around him, he stepped out of the window and planted both feet firmly on the floor of the office.  
  
"Carter!" Benton cried in dismay.  
  


* * *

  
 **County General Hospital - 10:44am**  
  
Things were slowing down. Cleo Finch had arrived, and all but two of the critical patients had been treated. The last two, a teacher with three wounds in his back and a male student with one wound in his leg, were both ready to be transported to the OR for surgery.  
  
Kerry Weaver sat at the admit desk, staring at the television without seeing it. So far, there had been fourteen major traumas and ten minors brought through those doors, and she knew that as the day went on those numbers were going to keep escalating. Of those who had already been transported to County, seven were in surgery, two had been admitted to medicine, and three were dead. The waiting room and exam rooms were now home to those whose injuries had been ruled minor; most of them had lacerations from glass that had shattered by the bullets exploding around them, three had sprained their ankles in their haste to escape the chaos, and one had broken his arm when he tripped and fell down the front steps.  
  
Things were slowing down. But Kerry Weaver knew that they wouldn't stay that way.  
  
She sighed and rested her chin against her fist, not seeing Luka Kovac as he returned from the elevators after having sent his patient upstairs for surgery.  
  
"Some day, huh, Kerry?" he asked, but received no response. "Kerry?"  
  
"What?" she asked quickly, blinking her eyes and turning toward him.  
  
"I said, 'some day'."  
  
"Yeah," she whispered, turning back to the television. "Some day. How's your patient?"  
  
"He's got a bullet lodged against his spine. He's on his way up now, but he's probably going to be paralyzed."  
  
Kerry shook her head in infinite sadness.  
  
"They're saying on the TV that they're kids, the ones who are doing this."  
  
"Yeah, I heard that too," she answered distractedly, as something on the screen caught her eye.  
  
"What could make kids do something like this? If they were this disturbed, how could no one have noticed?"  
  
Kerry didn't answer, but pushed herself away from the desk and walked closer to the television. The cameras were focusing on a lone figure, squatting in a windowsill on the first floor. A lone figure wearing a light blue dress shirt, a pair of dark blue slacks, and a pair of suspenders. "John," she whispered.  
  
"What? Kerry, what?" Luka asked, following her gaze to the screen. "That's Carter!" he cried in shock and recognition. "Why is he just sitting there? What's he doing?"  
  
Kerry watched as Carter shook his head slowly at someone she couldn't see, and climbed back inside. She heard Luka gasp beside her, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes.  
  
"He's helping those kids," she answered softly, turning away and walking toward the lounge. Silently, she added, 'Please, God, help him.'


	4. Harry Truman High School (outside) - 10:46am

**Harry Truman High School (outside) - 10:46am**

Benton lunged forward, but had only made it a few steps when he felt Mark's hand on his arm. "Where do you think you're going?" He lowered his voice so that only Benton could hear it. "Would you walk away from your patients, Peter?"

"But, Carter...”

"Carter made his decision. He's going to help those kids in there. What good will it do if there's no one to help them out here?" Mark sighed, glancing at the building for a heartbeat, then fixed Peter with his thoughtful gaze. "Don't make what he's doing in there be in vain, Peter."

Benton dropped his head and drew a deep, ragged breath, then looked back up at Mark. "You're right," he answered quietly, shaking his head at what he had been just about to do. "No, of course you're right. We've got patients to take care of."

"Then let's get to it."

* * *

  
**Harry Truman High School (inside) - 10:46am**

Carter looked around the office quickly. He'd made his decision; he was going to get those kids out of that building. He knew that he wasn't in the best of shape himself, but he could wait. He just needed to find something to bandage his arm with so he wouldn't lose much more blood, and then he could go.

He rummaged through the cabinets and shelves quickly, finding nothing that could be used as a bandage. His frantic but thorough search of Gary Evans' desk resulted in the same thing. His eyes darted around the room; he didn't have much time. They seemed to have a pattern of sorts worked out now, for patrolling the floors, and judging by the time it had taken them to come back to the first floor the last time, he only had a few minutes to get out of the office and across the hall.

His eyes fell on the dusty American flag that hung on a crooked wooden flagpole in the corner, and he walked to it quickly. He lifted the corner of it from the floor and smacked as much dust out of it as he could. It wasn't the best of bandages, but for the moment it would have to do. He'd have to stop by the nurse's office at some point, if he could, to find some real bandages. He might not be the only one who needed them

'Gramps'd kill me if he saw me do this,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. He found a small rip in the edging, placed his hands on either side of it, and pulled.

A few seconds later, he was looking down at a strip of the American flag he held between his fingers. It was mostly white, with a few inches of red. 'I should have taken a red strip instead,' he thought. "No one could see the blood." He jumped again at the sound of his voice and willed his heart to slow down.

He wrapped the impromptu bandage around his arm and used his teeth to tie it off. He moved his arm around a few times, flexing his fingers, to make certain that he hadn't tied it too tightly. 'Good mobility, sensation's intact.'

"Hang on, kids," he whispered, walking to the door. "I'm coming."

He unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open, checking up and down the hallway thoroughly to make certain that it was empty. Once he was satisfied that it was, he ran across the hall as fast as he could, grabbing the handle of the first door he came to and pulling it open.

One of the girls screamed when she saw the door open, and Carter put his fingers to his lips quickly as the door closed behind him. He scanned the room, and found that he had been right about there being no teacher. The only people in the room were huddled together in the back corner, and they were all kids.

"Where's your teacher?" he asked them.

"She never came in," one boy's quivering voice answered. "We were waiting for her when we heard... when they started...”

"Shhh, shhh," John comforted him, stepping forward, away from the door. "My name's John," he said to them, "and I'm here to help you."

"Help us how?" one girl demanded, her eyes swollen and red from tears. "Are you going to make us bullet proof?"

"No," he answered, looking from student to student, memorizing their faces, mentally keeping count of how many there were. "I'm going to get you out of here."

"How?" another boy asked. "He said they know where everyone is. If we try to leave, they'll shoot us!"

"Not if they don't know you're leaving. And if we get out of here in the next few seconds, they won't." He finished his count and looked briefly at their faces, seeing again the blind trust and willingness to believe him. "You're all going to be just fine. Now, everybody get up and come over here to me." They did as they were told, no one making a sound. "Good. That's good. Now, look at the person next to you. You remember who that is, and you keep them beside you. You stay in a group as you run. No matter what you hear, you stay together and you keep running. Don’t stop, and don’t look back."

Carter took a few steps back to toward the door, leaning back slightly to look out the window, and then opened it, checking up and down the hallway again. It was still empty. He motioned again for them to follow him. "As soon as you get outside, you throw your hands up in the air and run. Run as fast as you can. Run to the fire trucks, and get behind them. And stay together. You've got to stay together. Come on."

He led them out into the eerily silent hallway. The crying had stopped, leaving behind a lingering echo that was louder than a scream. They made their way quickly to the large glass opening that enclosed the stairs and the doors to the parking lot. He could see the emergency personnel set up out there, just as they were in the front. Then, just as the group made their way into the stairwell, Carter heard the faint sounds of footsteps on the stairs above them.

"Go!" he whispered, waving his arm toward the back door quickly. "Go! Run! Run as fast as you can! Go!"

They ran, and in seconds were outside. He watched them go, his ears straining to hear the footsteps coming down the stairs, and saw the students throw their arms above their heads and run, as a group, toward the waiting fire trucks.

"What the hell?!" Carter heard someone on the stairs shout, and glanced up.

They were right above him.

They had their backs to him, looking out the window on the second floor landing. "Damn it! Some of them got out!"

Carter turned to run, but his feet slipped on the tile floor and he tripped. He pressed his fingers against the floor and pushed himself forward, fighting to regain his balance as he ran. He'd only gotten 18 kids out so far. He couldn't let them see him yet.

He ran back toward the counselor's office, hearing the gunmen's footsteps rapidly descending the stairs behind him. He pulled the door open as quickly as he could, and grabbed the frame, ignoring the glass, pulling it shut behind him and locking it as he heard them enter the hallway. Again, he dived behind the toppled table, pushing himself back against the wall and holding his breath as one of the boys stuck his head in through the shattered glass.

"Damn!" the boy muttered. "They're out of here too!"

'Go away go away go away go away,' Carter begged silently, fighting as hard as he could against the pounding of his heart and the breath that was begging to be released.

The boy pulled his head back out of the room, and called to the other two. "Hey, you guys, the geeks in the counselor's office bolted too. Broke the window and made a run for it."

"You sure?" came a reply from further up the hallway.

"Yeah. It's empty."

The boy at the door moved away, and Carter heard his footsteps echoing as he joined his companions.

Carter released his breath in a gasp and leaned his head against the wall, panting. 'Too close,' he thought. 'That was too damn close.' His left hand started throbbing and he glanced down at it, surprised to find it covered in blood. Then he realized that he must have sliced it open in his haste to close and lock the door behind him.

He crawled back to the flag again, and ripped another strip from it. After a quick check to make certain there was no glass embedded in the wound, he wrapped it around the palm of his hand and tied it off on the back. 'Going to have to be more careful.'

"Some of your friends decided that they didn't want to stick around!"

The sound of the voice was so close that Carter thought the boy was talking directly to him. He jumped in shock and turned around. The same boy who had yelled out the warning earlier was standing in front of the office door, with his back to it. Carter held his breath again and crawled, slowly and silently, back behind the table.

"We told you not to piss us off, but they just did! I guess you don't believe us!"

Carter risked a glance around the table, and saw the boy nod his head at someone he couldn't see. He heard the sound of glass breaking, and then screaming. He closed his eyes, only to snap them open again when he heard the gun fire. He jumped up to run, but forced himself to fall to the ground again as the renewed cries of agony assaulted his ears.

"We think you might believe us now!"

Carter's breath stuck in his throat, fighting with his sobs to be heard. He'd gotten 18 kids out of this building. And because he did, one more had been shot. He bit his lip to keep his grief from finding a voice, and let the tears slide down his face. How could he have been so stupid? Why hadn't he waited?

The next sound that reached his ears was one of laughter, and he lifted his head from the floor. The boy standing in front of his door, the one who had spoken, the one who had given the order for another child to be shot, was laughing. It was the most evil, inhuman sound that John Carter had ever heard.

He glared at the boy's back as he walked away from the door. He had been ready to climb out the window himself, and to leave the rescue to the people who were trained to do it. He had been convinced that it had been his actions that had resulted in another child being harmed. As the sound of the boy's laughter filled his heart with hatred, he knew for a fact that if he did climb out that window, no one else would be leaving this building alive.

Steeling his heart against the despair that had filled it only seconds before, he stood and walked to the door, pressing his back up against the wall to watch the boys lower their weapons and move on toward the stairs at the far end of the hallway. They were still staying together, all three moving up and down to each floor, rather than splitting up and covering all three at the same time. It was a juvenile and illogical thing to do, but none of them realized it. Carter knew how to take advantage of it.

John Carter opened the office door and stepped out, keeping himself concealed in the recessed area in front of it, until he saw them disappear into the stairwell again. He vowed that he would have the first floor emptied before they came back down again.

With one more quick glance up and down the hallway, Carter pushed himself out of the doorway, and moved down to the next room.  



	5. County General Hospital - 11:03am

**County General Hospital - 11:03am**  
  
Robert Romano was not a happy man.  
  
He stormed out of the elevator and down the hallway toward the admit desk in the ER. He found it deserted, with the exception of the clerk girl… what was her name again? Brandy? Andi? She was staring at the television that hung in the corner above Chairs and didn't notice him approaching.  
  
"You!" he called out, trying to get her attention.  
  
"Me?" she asked slowly, not turning to look at him.  
  
"No, the other painted-up ex-con behind the desk. Yes you!"  
  
She turned then, her dark, narrow eyes blazing fire. "What!"  
  
"Where's Weaver?" he demanded. Someone had some serious explaining to do. Robert "Rocket" Romano was running a surgery department that was short one surgeon, and he intended to tear a hole in whoever was responsible for it.  
  
"Trauma One, trying to sew up some little girl's face," she spat back, choking back the sob that threatened to escape with her words.  
  
"Thank you," he answered curtly, turning on his heel and marching toward the trauma room, his scrub gown trailing behind him like a diminutive Darth Vader.  
  
"Screw you," Randi said to his back, loudly enough for him to hear.  
  
Romano raised his hand in acknowledgement of her words, but did not slow his pace.  
  


* * *

  
"Cindy, it's going to be all right." Kerry kept her voice soft and soothing, trying to calm the sixteen-year-old girl on the gurney in front of her. "We've called down a plastic surgeon to have a look at you, and I'm sure he'll be able to fix your cheek."  
  
"What about my ear?" the girl asked in a trembling voice.  
  
"It's possible. We've got the best plastic surgeons in the state here...”  
  
Her words were cut short as the doors to the trauma room burst open and Robert Romano strode in.  
  
"Dr. Weaver, I'd like a word with you."  
  
"Not now, Robert," she answered shortly, turning her face back down to Cindy. "We called your parents, like you asked, and they should be here soon. They can stay with you when the plastic surgeon comes, if you'd like."  
  
"Yes now, Kerry!"  
  
"No! I'm busy."  
  
"Well, now that you mention it, so am I. In fact, I'm very busy. In fact, I've already performed two surgeries personally, both lifesaving procedures I might add, and my surgical service has performed another thirteen. We've still got three running right now, and who knows how many more coming up before the end of the day. But you see, I've got this little problem, Kerry," he continued, not giving her a chance to respond to his first statements. "I'm one surgeon short. Now the last time anyone saw him, he was coming down here for a consult on a leg fracture. And in the midst of everyone having a really busy day, I'd just like to know where the hell is Peter Benton?!"  
  
"I'll be right back, Cindy," Kerry said softly to the young girl before turning and grabbing Romano by his arm, pushing him out of the room. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"  
  
"I just told you what the hell is wrong with me, Kerry. Or weren't you listening? You guys are sending these people up left and right, and I don't have enough surgeons to cover them all. Do you know what's going on up there? Do you have any idea? I've got third year residents performing solo because there are no attendings to send in with them. I need Benton! I've paged him twelve times in the past forty-five minutes, and he hasn't answered me yet. Now where the hell is he?!"  
  
"He's not here, Robert."  
  
"What do you mean, he's not here? Of course he's here. Where else would he be?"  
  
"He left. He went with Mark in the chopper to the scene. You think you're having a rough time upstairs? Some of these people are coming in with surgical procedures, lifesaving procedures, I might add," she continued, throwing his own words back at him, "already done! You're cutting them open and sewing them shut again in an operating room, Robert. He's doing it in the middle of the street. And if it weren't for him being there, half of the people you've treated wouldn't be here!"  
  
"Well why the hell didn't you tell me you sent him to the scene?"  
  
"I didn't send him. Today was my day off; I came in in answer to a page. He was already gone when I got here. He and Mark went in the chopper as soon as the Sheriff called for it."  
  
Romano thought for a moment, and then narrowed his eyes. "Why did Peter go? Why didn't Greene take that foreign fellow, Malgucci, with him?"  
  
Kerry sighed. "He went because Carter's there."  
  
"Dr. Carter's where? At the school? Well that doesn't make any sense. If we already had one doc there, why did two more go?"  
  
"Because Carter isn't outside," she answered, through clenched teeth.  
  
Robert Romano found himself suddenly speechless, and his expression changed from one of anger to one of concern. "Dr. Carter's in the building? In the school? With all the shooting going on? How did that happen?"  
  
"He was there for your diversity program," Kerry responded, her voice suddenly much softer. "He was in the guidance office talking to some students when this all started."  
  
"How do you know that for certain? Has anyone seen him?"  
  
"The first victim who went up to surgery was the guidance counselor. He told me Carter saved his life. He broke out a window and had the kids climb out and carry him to the ambulance. And yes, we've seen him."  
  
"Seen Carter? When?"  
  
"On the television," she answered, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes again. "He had a chance to get out, but he didn't. He went back in."  
  
"Well that was stupid," Romano remarked, reverting back to his usual bitter self.  
  
Kerry glared at him. 'Chief of Staff my ass!' she thought, leaning closer to him. "So far, he's gotten eighteen more people out of that building. Eighteen people who might have died if he hadn't stayed. Eighteen children, Robert. He's saving their lives, at the risk of his own. That's not stupid. It's the bravest thing I've ever seen."  
  
Kerry Weaver turned on her heel and walked back into the trauma room to get Cindy ready to be moved to another room until her parents arrived.  
  
Robert Romano watched after her for a few more seconds, still too stunned from what she had said to speak. John Carter was in that building, not by chance but by choice, and he was risking his own life for the chance of saving others. "Didn't know the kid had it in him," he whispered to no one as he turned and walked back toward the elevators. "Don't know if I'd have it in me."  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School - 11:16 AM**  
  
"Heads up! Another group coming out!"  
  
Marc Baker turned his head at the sound of the Sheriff's voice, and saw another group of students running down the sidewalk, right out the front door. This was the third group to exit the building in the last ten minutes. Most of them had their arms raised above their heads, as had the two before them. Three of the larger boys were carrying the injured across their shoulders; two students and a teacher.  
  
Marc pulled his PDA out of his pocket again as members of the SWAT team ran forward to escort the group the rest of the way to safety. As they rounded the fire trucks, Marc intercepted them, stepping first to the boys with the burdens. "I need your names, and theirs," he said quickly.  
  
"Tony Harper, and this is Melissa Ray."  
  
"Thank you. Take her over behind the ambulances. There are doctors over there. Leave her, and get out of their way."  
  
Tony Harper nodded and moved off quickly, not even questioning the other boy.  
  
Marc repeated the process for the other two boys, noting with dismay that the teacher did not seem to be breathing. "Dr. Benton!" he called as he saw the surgeon appear from behind a police car. "Dr. Benton! This man's not breathing!"  
  
Peter ran over quickly, motioning for the boy who was holding the young teacher to place him on the ground. "ET tube!" he called out in the direction of one of the waiting ambulances. "We need to tube him and get him on a chopper, now!"  
  
Marc turned away from the scene in the street, touching the arm of the young man who had carried his teacher to safety in a sign that he could go on. He then returned to the group of students that still waited for him behind the fire truck. He asked their names and did a rough check of their condition. Gunshot wounds behind the line of ambulances, cuts and bruises along the side of the fire trucks, the uninjured across the street in the gymnasium.  
  
Marc looked down at the screen of his PDA, and ran a quick mental total. The list that was stored in its memory had been intended for keeping track of the pictures he'd cropped for the yearbook; in the past hour it had become something much more important. He was now using that list to keep as accurate a record as possible of who was still in the building, and who had made it out. He knew that another student, the president of the senior class, was keeping a similar list in the parking lot, for those who were escaping out the back. Occasionally one of the policemen would ask on the radio for someone on the other side to get the total number from him, and call it out to Marc. It wasn't exactly proper police procedure, but it needed to be done, and allowing the students to do it themselves kept them from having to trouble with it.  
  
Marc finished his mental addition. In the past ten minutes Dr. Carter, or John, as the students coming out were calling him, had managed to evacuate forty-nine people out the front door. And to his credit, no one had been left behind. If there were injured in the room, they limped, hobbled, or were dragged or carried out. And so far, none of them were dead. There was one boy, in the first group, who had been shot right through the chest. But it had only been a matter of minutes before the rest of his class had run out the doors and down the steps, carrying him with them. Marc knew that Raul Martinez had lived long enough to be placed in a chopper and flown to the ER at County General. He didn't know for sure, but he thought that had to be a good sign.  
  
"Heads up!" came the now familiar call, and Marc turned his attention to the next group of students running toward the street.


	6. County General Hospital - 11:19am

**County General Hospital - 11:19am**  
  
Luka Kovac looked up at the clock, sighing as he removed his hands from the boy's chest. "Time of death, 11:18." The doctor looked back down at the stilled face in front of him, then pulled his gloves off with a snap. "Clean him up, and move him out into the hall. Haleh, call transport to take him downstairs." He walked out of the trauma room, removing the bloody yellow gown and goggles and throwing them away.  
  
Luka entered the staff lounge, needing a few moments of peace before the next victim arrived. So far, he had counted around twenty major traumas. His last patient had been the fifth to die. He didn't know the status of those who had been taken upstairs for surgery, and he was almost afraid to call up and ask.  
  
Quiet weeping drew his attention to the end of the couch, and he sat beside her wordlessly, putting his arm around her shoulders to comfort her. "Shhhhh," he whispered into her hair, smoothing it with his hand. "It's going to be all right."  
  
"Oh, Luka... they're only children!"  
  
"I know, Abby. I know."  
  
Abby Lockhart took a few moments to compose herself, wiping the tears from her cheeks and leaning her head against the doctor's chest. "How is he?"  
  
"He didn't make it," he answered softly. "He was dead before the helicopter landed, but I had to try." He paused, his eyes glazing over slightly in thought. "They said his name was Raul Martinez. Seventeen years old."  
  
"Luka, I'm so worried about him," Abby said suddenly.  
  
Kovac looked down at her upturned face, knowing exactly whom it was she was talking about. "He'll be all right, Abby."  
  
"I wish I could believe that," she sighed. "Those kids, those boys, look at what they're doing. How many people have they killed already? How many have died here? How many are dead there? What could he have possibly been thinking, staying in there like that? Why didn't he leave when he had the chance?"  
  
"The policeman on the radio, he said that Carter's led 84 people out of the building so far. The last group that came out said they were the last class on the first floor. Look at what he's done so far, Abby. Look at how many people he's saved by staying."  
  
"But what about him? How will we know if anything happens to him?"  
  
"As long as the students keep coming out, we will know that he is alive. He's alive, and he's doing what needs to be done to save the people in that building."  
  
"He's already been shot at least once," she reminded him.  
  
"How bad can it be, really? It's been over an hour, and he's still going." Luka took her chin in his hand and made her look at him. There had been a time when he had been very jealous of John Carter, but in the past two months he had come to understand just what his relationship with Abby was, and just how important they were to each other. "I know that you are worried about him, Abby. I am too. But how many more children would we be treating, how many more dead children would there be in the hallway, if he weren't there?"  
  
"I don't know, Luka. I know he's saving them. And I know that he has to. He's Carter; that's just who he is." She sighed and closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of Luka's embrace again. "I just wish that he didn't have to be that today."  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (inside) - 11:22am**  
  
Donnie Wilson didn't know how his day had gotten so out of hand.  
  
He'd gotten out of bed that morning, taken his shower and gotten dressed, just like any normal day. He'd eaten the eggs and bacon that his mom had put in front of him, grabbed his backpack, and kissed her goodbye, just like any normal day. He'd taken his dog, Max, outside with him and put him on his chain, patting his head and promising to take him to the park that afternoon. He'd walked down the street, waved at old Miss Frasier in her front window, and stopped at the corner to talk to Melvin, the newspaper man. It had been a completely normal day.  
  
Then he'd gotten to Frank's house.  
  
Joe was already there, as he was every morning, and they were standing in the garage. Frank held a gun, a big gun, in his hands, and he and Joe were laughing.  
  
"Hey, guys!" Donnie had called out to them, tossing his backpack down in the corner.  
  
"Hey, Donnie," Frank had answered. "What you doin' today?"  
  
"Nothin'. Just goin' to school. Why?"  
  
"We're goin' to school too, ain't we, Joe?" Frank had asked, and Joe laughed. Donnie looked back and forth between them; he had a feeling that they were laughing at some joke he wasn't in on.  
  
"Oh yeah," Joe answered. "We're goin' to school today."  
  
Donnie looked at them again, wondering if he should ask what they were talking about, or wait for them to tell him. Frank and Joe were his best friends, his only friends really. There were a lot of people, his parents included, who told him that they weren't good friends to have. He knew that they got in trouble sometimes; Frank had been arrested twice for shoplifting, and Joe was always in the principal's office for something or other. But they were always nice to him. They talked to him, listened to him, and understood him. That was something that no one else had ever done.  
  
"Hey, Donnie," Frank asked quietly, leaning forward with the gun. "Wanna be famous?"  
  
"Well, sure," Donnie had answered. Who didn't want to be famous? When you were famous, people knew who you were. Everyone wanted to be your friend. You got to drive fancy cars and all the pretty girls liked you.   
  
He had no idea what Frank was going to suggest they do.  
  
"See, we're going to school to get famous," Frank had continued, glancing at Joe. "We're going to be the most famous people in the city by the end of the day."  
  
"Really?" Donnie had asked. "How? Whatchya gonna do?"  
  
"We're gonna do this," Frank answered, shoving the gun he had been holding into Donnie's hands.  
  
And that was how Donnie's day had gone from normal to unreal. He still didn't understand just why he had agreed with them. He certainly didn't want to do this. He hadn't fired a shot out of the gun in his hands yet, and he wasn't even sure he would know how to fire it if Frank told him to. He didn't even know what kind of gun it was. He just knew that if he fired it, it would be loud and it would hurt someone, and he didn't want to hurt anyone.  
  
They were walking down the stairs to the first floor again, after having thoroughly checked the second and third. No one from up there had left, but Donnie hadn't really thought they would. The people on the first floor at least had the doors to the outside, and if they had to jump out the window they weren't far from the ground. They hadn't shot anyone since Joe had broken the window out of the chemistry lab after Frank got so mad at the history room kids for leaving.  
  
Donnie hoped it stayed that way. He didn't like all this shooting. He didn't like hurting all these people. He wanted it all to be over. He wanted everyone to be all right again. He wanted to go home.  
  
"Goddamnit!" he heard Frank yell, and snapped back to reality. "They're gone!"  
  
Joe and Frank were running down the hallway, opening doors and checking inside. Donnie watched them in disbelief. Why were they doing this? What was the point? They had told him that they were going to be famous by the end of the day. But Donnie had a feeling that by the time this was done, all they were going to be was dead.  
  
"They're all gone," Joe said, turning to look at Frank across the hall. "There's no one down here."  
  
"Damn it!" Frank swore again, and Donnie could tell that he was thinking. "I told them not to leave! We shot that boy so they would know what would happen if they tried to leave! Why didn't it work?! It should have worked!"  
  


* * *

  
John Carter stood on the landing between the first and second floors, listening to the boys below him. He smiled in satisfaction when he heard the one he had come to think of as the leader of the three yelling about the empty rooms. He felt courage that he didn't know he possessed come over him as he listened to them, shouting out their confusion and dismay over having lost so many of their victims. He heard their voices, sounding so much like little children who had had their favorite toys taken away. Carter chuckled quietly at the thought as he stood with his back to the window, looking down the stairs.  
  
They were throwing a tantrum.  
  
They were children.  
  
And John Carter wasn't afraid of them any more.  
  


* * *

  
"Did you hear that?" Donnie asked quietly of the other two, but they were too involved in their own heated discussion to hear him. Donnie stood silent, straining his ears to hear the sound that had caught his attention, and he heard it again. It was laughter. Someone was standing in the stairwell, laughing at them.  
  
Donnie looked quickly back at Frank and Joe, wondering if he should tell them what he was hearing, but decided not to. Instead, he walked into the stairwell to see where the sound was coming from.  
  


* * *

  
Carter saw the boy's feet first, and he kept laughing. He didn't know what the feeling that had taken control of him was, but he liked it. It was euphoric, better than any high he'd ever gotten from shooting up. He felt fearless, invincible, untouchable. He knew that he was drawing attention to himself, but he didn't care. If they wanted to hunt people, then he'd give them someone to hunt. And if they spent the rest of the day hunting him, then they wouldn't have time to worry about hurting anyone else.  
  


* * *

  
Donnie walked slowly into the stairwell and looked up. He saw him standing there, silhouetted in the early afternoon sunlight that came through the window behind him. He looked young. He had bandages wrapped around his arm and hand. And he was laughing at him.  
  


* * *

  
Carter stared down at the boy at the bottom of the stairs, and time froze. The eyes that looked up at him weren't soulless, as Carter had imagined they would be. They were young, and confused, and sad, and scared. He stopped laughing and looked at the boy, feeling the hardness in his heart suddenly soften to compassion. This boy did not look old enough to drive yet, and yet he was running around a school with a gun in his hand. Carter wondered if he was even old enough to understand what it was he was doing.  
  


* * *

  
Donnie stood, transfixed, at the bottom of the stairs. Who was this man? He'd never seen him before, so he couldn't be a teacher. He was dressed too well to be a janitor, and he wasn't a cop. How had he gotten in here? What was he doing? Why was he standing on the stairs laughing at them?  
  
He knew that he should call to Frank and Joe. This man, whoever he was, shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be standing there like that. But there was something about him that made Donnie feel somehow better about himself, about the things that were happening, about the things he was involved in. He had stopped laughing and was just looking at him, and in that man's eyes, Donnie saw someone who was unlike anyone he'd ever met before. This man, this man who had been hurt by Donnie's friends, was looking down at him like he cared.  
  
"Donnie?" Frank called. "Donnie, where are you?"  
  
Donnie didn't answer, although he knew he should. Frank would want to know about this man. But he couldn't bring himself to betray him. Donnie somehow knew that this man was here for a reason, and he just couldn't bring himself to tell Frank that he was there.  
  


* * *

  
Carter looked down at Donnie, and saw the confusion in the young boy's eyes. He heard the approaching footsteps of the other two boys in the hallway, heading his way. Carter placed his fingers to his lips, hoping that the frightened child at the bottom of the stairs would understand, and started to walk away, to climb the stairs to the second floor.   
  
The other boy didn't speak a word, and Carter smiled as placed his hand on the stair rail to begin his climb.  
  


* * *

  
Donnie stood silent at the foot of the stairs, for some reason hoping that the man would manage to make it up the stairs before Frank or Joe saw him. But he was moving too slowly, and they were too fast. Frank followed Donnie's gaze up the stairs and saw a man walking up the stairs above them.  
  
"Who the hell is that?!" he screamed at Donnie. "Who the hell is that!?"  
  


* * *

  
John Carter heard the boy's voice below him, and he started to run.


	7. Harry Truman High School - 11:26am

**Harry Truman High School - 11:26am**  
  
Peter Benton felt like he was going crazy.  
  
It had been almost ten minutes since the last group of kids had come out of the building. The criticals had been assessed and either driven or flown to County; the minors had been bandaged up and taken to LakePoint and Mercy if they required further attention; the uninjured were being gathered in the gymnasium across the street.  
  
There was nothing to do now but wait. And Peter Benton wasn't very good at waiting.  
  
He hadn't seen Carter since his stunt in the window. Benton insisted on calling it a stunt, insisted on believing that what Carter had done had been stupid and foolish. It somehow made the insanity going on around him easier to handle if he convinced himself that it hadn't been necessary for Carter to stay inside. Being angry with Carter was easier than trying to understand why those boys were shooting their classmates and teachers.  
  
The surgeon paced up and down behind the ambulances, glancing every now and again in Mark Greene's direction. They hadn't spoken since they had seen Carter climb back inside, and Benton didn't think they should. They were of two separate minds on Carter's actions this morning. Benton took the position that Carter should have come out and gotten his own injuries attended to, leaving the heroics to the men who were trained for it. Greene had begun lauding Carter as a hero of the type you just didn't see any more.  
  
Benton spared a glance at the roof of the gymnasium as he flopped his suddenly weary body down on the curb. He knew there were men up there with guns waiting for a chance to shoot. The gunmen had so far kept themselves away from the windows, with the exception of the library on the second floor, but they had pulled the shades down across the windows in there. If those shades went up, Benton knew that the men on the roof of that building would open fire.  
  
What if Carter were in the way when they did? What if he was already dead? What if the wound in his arm was worse than he had thought, and he was lying alone in there, bleeding to death?  
  
Peter Benton was a surgeon. He saved people's lives. He put them back together when they were broken and bleeding, and then he sent them off with the nurses. He didn't think about what their feelings were, or wonder how they were ever going to live with what had happened to them. Never considered what their reactions were going to be, or worried about the nightmares they'd have.  
  
Except for John Carter.  
  
When it had been John Carter lying on that operating table in front of him, under his hands, all of those things had been swirling through Benton's mind. Why had it happened? How had it happened? Could he have prevented it? Could anyone have? What would he do if Carter died?  
  
It had been the last question that had driven him to the brink of panic in the operating room that night. He had been so frantic to save the young man that he'd been not only willing, but insistent, that Dr. Anspaugh let him remove one of his kidneys. The older surgeon had kept his head together, though, yelling at Benton to slow down and think. But Peter didn't want to think. It was thinking that was making his hands move faster than he had known they could. It was thinking that was clouding his mind, overwhelming him with emotions he'd never felt during surgery before. It was thinking that had made him realize that he wasn't trying to save John Carter just because he could.  
  
He was saving John Carter because he needed to.  
  
He had to.  
  
He suddenly realized, after almost eight years, that he needed him.  
  
Peter sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head into his hands. He had tried many times since then to figure out just what his relationship with, and dependence on, Carter was. There were times that he had seriously disliked the younger man, been annoyed with him, irritated by him, jealous of him. But every time he had a problem to deal with: when his mother died, when Dennis Gant died, when he dislocated his finger punching that prosthetic salesman, when his appendix needed to be removed, when Reese had almost died... Every time Peter Benton turned around, Carter was standing right behind him. He had tried time and again to make the young man go away, but Carter never had. He had always been there.  
  
And then it was Carter's turn to push Benton away. Benton tried so many times during those months after his stabbing to get the younger man to open up, had asked him so many times if he was certain he was all right, if he was sure that he was ready. Carter had always answered with "I'm fine," and Benton had gone on, convinced that if there really was a problem, Carter would talk to him about it. He'd been so wrong. And he had almost lost Carter again.  
  
He still didn't completely understand why he had gotten on that plane. Carter was hurting and needed his help. Carter had never left him alone when he needed help, and he was damned if he was going to abandon him. So many people had asked him about his relationship with the young man. Cleo had gone so far as to tell him that she thought he was wasting his time with him. But he kept going back. Carter had been standing behind him through everything for eight years. Peter Benton would do the same for him for at least that long.  
  
Were they friends? He honestly didn't know. He had never really had time in his life for friends, and he didn't remember ever having any. But if he did have one friend on the face of the planet, John Carter was it.  
  
Mark Greene sat down beside him, rubbing his hands together. "Crazy day, isn't it, Peter?"  
  
"Yeah," Benton answered, raising his head from his hands. "Crazy day."  
  
Mark glanced over at him, then reached out and tapped his fist against the surgeon's knee. "He's all right, Peter."  
  
"I know."  
  
"There's a lot of heroes around here today," Mark commented with a smile, leaning back on his hands. "A lot of heroes."  
  
Peter sighed. Mark was right. There were a lot of heroes. Some might even consider him to be one. "Only one real one," Benton answered softly, gazing in worry at the window Carter had been sitting in only an hour before. "Only one."  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (inside) - 11:28am**  
  
Carter didn't exit the stairs on the second floor, as he had been intending to do. He kept running, taking the stairs two at a time, until he reached the entrance to the third floor. He could hear footsteps behind him, coming up the stairs after him. He bolted into the hallway, and started yelling.  
  
"Get out!" he yelled, slamming his fist against the lockers as he ran. "Everybody out! Get out of here! Get out of here now!"  
  
He saw the doors opening, and a flood of students and teachers filled the hallway, looking around them in uncertainty. "Run!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "They're right behind me! Run! Get out! Get out of the building! Go!"  
  
He saw the teachers suddenly take command of the situation, leading their classes to the nearest exit as quickly as they could. The crowd in the hallway was thinning, and John glanced back down the stairs. They were on the landing right below him now, screaming and cursing at him to shut up.  
  
"You're dead!" the leader bellowed. "Son of a bitch! You're dead!"  
  
"Run!" John screamed again, pushing his way past the last of the stragglers. "Get the hell out of here! Run!" Carter kept running, but he did the one thing he had been telling everyone else not to do – he looked back. The hallway was suddenly empty, with the exception of the two very angry young men that had emerged from the stairs. They were running after him, their guns aimed at his back. He turned back around and pushed himself to run faster.  
  
He heard the bullets whizzing past him, slamming into the floor behind and beside him, heard and saw the glass in one of the trophy cases shatter as he ran past it. He reached out and grabbed the frame of the door that led to the stairs, using it as a pivot so he could turn without slowing down. He ran down a few steps, then placed his right hand on the concrete banister, kicked his legs across the top, and jumped.  
  
He stumbled a bit when he landed on the stairs below, but recovered quickly and dashed into the hallway. He had bought himself a few more seconds, but not many. He didn't have time to clear this floor as he had the one above. Glancing around himself frantically, he saw the door to the girls' restroom, and pushed the door open, nearly collapsing on the floor once he was inside. He pushed himself to his feet again, and dove into one of the stalls, closing and locking the door behind him as he climbed up on to the stool.  
  
It suddenly occurred to him that if there was only one stall locked, they would know which one he was in, and he climbed down from his hiding place. He lay down on his stomach on the floor and pushed himself under the metal that divided one stall from the next, pausing just long enough to reach up and close and latch the door before moving on to the next. When he had latched the last door, he pushed himself back into the stall beside it, and stood. He climbed up on to lid of the stool as he had before, pulling his right foot up just as the door to the restroom burst open.  
  
"He has to be in here!" he heard the boy yell. "There's no where else he could have gone!"  
  
Carter was crouched on the stool in the second stall from the windows, his back pressed against the metal divider behind him, his left hand on the wall behind the toilet and his right hand on the door. He closed his eyes and willed his heart to slow down, convinced that it was beating loudly enough for them to hear it. He heard the boys walking slowly in front of the bank of stalls, testing each door, only to find them all locked. He held his breath as he saw the shadow on the floor in front of the door to his hiding place, and then leaned his head back and closed his eyes as the boy moved on.  
  
"We know you're in here, Mister," the boy began, and Carter was again struck by how young his voice sounded. It still cracked on a few words here and there. How much life did this boy have ahead of him when he got out of bed this morning? How much did he have in him now?  
  
"We're not stupid. We know you're in here because there's nowhere else you could have gone so fast. Locking all the doors was a cute idea. But that doesn't mean we still can't shoot you."  
  
Carter jumped when the gun went off, but managed not to cry out in surprise. The sound of the bullet tearing through the metal of the stall furthest from him was unmistakable, as was the boy's intent. This child was going to shoot through every door in the room until he shot him.  
  
Carter looked around frantically as he heard another shot. There was nowhere to hide. If he tried to run, they would see him. If he stayed where he was, they would shoot him.  
  
'High school boys don't do this!' his mind screamed at him. High school boys played basketball and video games, took their girlfriends to McDonalds and cheap movies on Friday nights, went to football games and school dances, listened to old Duran Duran songs and watched television. High school boys drove beat up old cars, worked at gas stations and grocery stores, and dreamed about Natalie Portman and Jennifer Love-Hewitt. High school boys did not run around their high school shooting people!  
  
Another shot, another bullet, another hole in another door, this time the one right in front of him. He was out of time. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no way to escape what he knew was coming. Carter took his left hand off of the wall and put it in his mouth, closing his eyes and praying that the bullet he knew was coming didn't hit anything vital.  
  
The pain he felt as the bullet ripped through the side of his thigh was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He bit down on his hand as hard as he could to keep himself from crying out. He felt his leg start to shake, threatening to throw him off balance on his perch, and he shifted his weight to his right hand, praying that his arm didn't give out. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his mouth was full of blood. He'd bitten his hand so hard that he'd drawn his own blood, and his jaws refused to let go.  
  
He hardly heard the last shot rip through the door of the stall behind him, barely heard the boy speak again. "Damn. Guess he's not in here after all. Go get Donnie. Round everybody on this floor up and put them in the library. We'll have to find this asshole later."  
  
'Just hold on,' John told himself. 'Just wait till they're out the door. Then you can lose it.'  
  
He heard the footsteps moving away from the stalls. 'Too slow. They're moving too slow! I can't take this any more!' Then they opened the door and walked out, letting it close slowly behind them. They were gone.  
  
"Oh God!" he cried out softly, taking his hand out of his mouth and throwing his head back. His right arm started shaking, unable to support his full weight for any longer, and it gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. He pulled his leg up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his thigh, and rolled on to his back.  
  
"God that hurts!" He started to cry again, not bothering to try and stop it.  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (outside) - 11:31am**  
  
"Heads up!"  
  
Peter Benton and Mark Greene both turned, expecting to see another group of 20 or so people running from the building.  
  
"What the...?" Mark sputtered as the 20 became 40, then 80, then more.  
  
Peter stared at the large group of people running toward the fire trucks, involuntarily ducking when he heard the gunshots begin. "No!" he yelled, starting toward the building.  
  
Mark grabbed his arm. "No, Peter! They won't let you in anyway!"  
  
The students and teachers that were running out now were screaming. No one seemed to have been injured inside. A few of them were limping, and every now and then one of them would fall down the stairs or trip on a crack in the sidewalk. Peter and Mark put their own thoughts on hold for the moment and held out their arms, gesturing to the stampede, leading them between the trucks.   
  
The last of the screaming, frantic mass made their way out of the building and down the sidewalk, assembling with the rest in the street as the gunshots inside stopped. Peter and Mark joined them quickly, and Benton made his way to one of the teachers.  
  
"What happened?" he demanded.  
  
"I don't know! We were all just sitting there, waiting, and then this man started beating on the lockers, screaming at us to get out. We were almost out of the hallway when these two boys came out of the stairs and started shooting at him."  
  
"Shooting at him, or just shooting?" Mark asked, his mind reeling with the implications of what the man had said.  
  
"At him," the teachers answered, leaning over to catch his breath. "They weren't paying attention to us at all."  
  
"Mark...," Peter began softly.   
  
Both men's heads jerked toward the building as the firing began again, this time much more controlled. Benton counted five shots, spaced about ten seconds apart. He turned back to Mark slowly, his dark eyes full of apprehension.  
  
"They found him."


	8. Harry Truman High School (inside) - 11:33am

**Harry Truman High School (inside) - 11:33am**  
  
Carter lay panting on the floor for a few more moments, trying to block the pain from his mind. It would be so easy to just give up. Just lie there and go to sleep. Then he thought of the kids that were still stranded on the second floor, and the injured that may have been left behind in the rush to evacuate as many as possible from the third, and he knew he had to get up. He had to keep going. And the only way he was going to be able to do that was to make himself get out of that stall.  
  
He pulled himself out from under the door, half-crawling all the way to the sinks. Blinking through the tears of pain in his eyes, he reached up with his bloody left hand and grabbed the side of the sink bowl, pulling his left leg up under himself and forcing himself to stand. His right hand was pressed against the side of his leg, trying to staunch the bleeding.  
  
He gave himself a few seconds to get steady, then limped painfully to the door, dragging his right leg behind him. He reached out with his left hand as soon as he was within arms-reach of the door, and locked it quickly before he turned, pressing his back against the wall as he slid down it. He looked down at his leg, and saw the blood seeping between his fingers. This was no flesh wound.  
  
It was easy enough to locate the entrance wound. A single bullet had entered his right thigh from the outside, midway between his hip and knee. He was bleeding quite a bit, but not enough for the bullet to have hit or nicked an artery. He looked down along the inside of his leg, looking for the exit wound, but there wasn't one. He could walk on it though, so at least it wasn't broken. This one was bad, but it wasn't deadly.  
  
Not immediately anyway.  
  
With a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet again, and dragged himself to the automatic towel hanging on the wall beside the sinks. Using his teeth, he started a small tear in the edge, and ripped it the rest of the way with his hands. It took a few tugs to get it out of the box on the wall, and once it was he wrapped it around the hole in his leg, hoping that it would be enough to keep him from losing too much more blood. It wasn't the best bandage in the world, but at least it was somewhat sanitized. It was better than the dusty flag he had used to bandage his arm and hand.  
  
Carter realized that he was shaking, and willed it to stop. He turned the faucet on just a bit, and splashed some cold water on his face, hoping that it would help his mind to clear. In the process, he managed to catch the first glimpse of his own face since he had left the house earlier that morning. 'No wonder those kids are all so scared of me at first,' he thought to himself. "I look like hell."  
  
John jumped and spun his head, convinced that the words had come from behind him rather than out of his own mouth. He hadn't intended to speak, and didn't remember forming the words, but they had come out in his voice. Concentrating on bringing his heart back under control, he turned back to the mirror, his mind flashing back over the events of the past hour.  
  
His face, neck, and arms were covered in tiny cuts. The bleeding, what little of it there had been, had long since stopped, but each cut was covered with little streaks of dried blood. The bandage on his arm had soaked through, and the blood had stained his shirt a few inches above and below the edges of the strip of old flag. He held his left hand up in front of his face, and saw that the blood from the glass in the office door had soaked that bandage as well. Both of his old wounds seemed to have clotted now though, and he wasn't worried about any immediate danger from them. His leg had started throbbing now, with each beat of his heart pumping more blood out of the severed blood vessels. He glanced down at it and saw the bandage he had applied to it was already a bright red.  
  
He looked back into the mirror again, staring intently at the pasty-gray face that gazed back at him. He had taken longer than he should have to assess himself. If the boys decided to come and recheck the restroom and found the door locked, they would know exactly where he was. He had to finish what he had stayed in this building to do, and then get the hell out of it himself.  
  
They had said that they were going to gather the entire second floor together in the library. If everyone was together in one room, that would leave no reason for the boys to go out on patrol again, unless they were out looking for him, which he hoped they would do. If they stayed in the library with their hostages, it would severely limit John's ability to help any more of them escape. The bright side to the situation, if there was such a thing, was that it would only take him a matter of seconds to get the uninjured out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the building.  
  
The possibility of injuries in the library was high, he knew, just as high as it was for every other room in the building, and he still had no idea how many injured had been left upstairs in his rush to evacuate the others. It was going too fast now. If he had just kept waiting them out, moving silently from room to room and moving them out one group at a time, he wouldn't be in this position now. He wouldn't have a bullet in his leg, and he wouldn't be facing an uncertain amount of casualties that he might have forced the others to abandon.  
  
Why had he ever stood on that landing, laughing at the children down below?  
  
Why had he ever just stayed there when he saw one of them heading his way?  
  
Why had he stayed in this child-made Hell in the first place?  
  
What did he think he was accomplishing? How many children were lying above him, alone, injured, frightened, dying, because of him? How many people had been hurt just because he had stayed? How many people had he killed?  
  
In all the turmoil and questions that swirled through his mind, John Carter was absolutely certain of only one thing.  
  
He had screwed up. And he had screwed up badly.  
  
He placed his hands on the edge of the sink and let his head fall. He had thought that he was saving them. He had thought that he could help. All he had done was make matters worse for them. He drew in a ragged breath and raised his head again. He had sworn to these kids that he would help them, and so far all he had done was endanger them. But he would make it right.  
  
He would make it right.  
  
With a slight gasp of pain, he pushed himself away from the sink and limped slowly to the door. He unlocked it and pushed it open a few inches, just enough to look down the hallway. The library was right across the hall from him; he could see the three boys in there now, parading around with their guns slung across their shoulders. He knew that there was a branch in the hall that led to the front stairs, and hoped that there was a back door to the library there. Falling to the floor to avoid being seen should one of the boys turn around, he started crawling.  
  


* * *

  
 **County General Hospital - 11:35am**  
  
The last three casualties to be brought in from the school were upstairs in surgery. The cheerleader and the other boy would be fine; the teacher was touch-and-go. The ER was calm and quiet once more, not just unusually but eerily so. Haleh and Jing-Mei were finally getting a cast on the rollerblader. The young mother had gone home. The rule-out MI had been admitted for angiography. And the doctors and nurses were again huddled around the television at the admit desk, waiting. They didn't know what it was they were waiting for; more casualties, word that the shooters had been apprehended, a glimpse of Carter coming out...   
  
"Dr. Weaver!" Randi cried out in alarm. "Dr. Weaver, look!"  
  
Kerry's attention had been a thousand miles from the hospital when she heard Randi's voice, and she jerked her head around to the television immediately. The distant shot from the helicopter flying above the school tightened, showing a large group of people running out the front door of the school. "Turn it up!" she commanded, and Randi complied.  
  
"Again, this is the scene at Harry Truman High School just moments ago," the announcer was saying. "A rush evacuation of the entire third floor of Building One resulted in another 247 students and teachers escaping. None of these escapees had been harmed during the siege. WGN has learned that the man helping the hostages to escape is one Dr. John Carter, an Emergency Services physician at Cook County General Hospital, who had been present in the building this morning to meet with a small group of students. It has been reported by witnesses that Dr. Carter has already sustained injuries of his own, and it is being speculated that the gunmen are now searching the building for him. Immediately after this group of evacuees began exiting the building, shots were heard being fired on the third floor, and several of those WGN has been able to interview have reported that while they were ignored during their escape, two of the gunmen were firing at Dr. Carter...”  
  
"Dear God," Luka breathed. He glanced down at Abby, noticing that she had turned a very ghastly shade of white, and put his arm around her. Dave Malucci sat down very suddenly on the chair he had stood up from, his legs having grown too weak to support his weight. Kerry closed her eyes and placed her head in her hands, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea and praying for John's safety.  
  
No one spoke. The only sound in the room was the announcer's voice, saying that she was now going to a reporter on the scene at Cook County General. Dave looked up at the screen, immediately recognizing the ambulance bay and looked out the doors. They were there; a reporter and a camera crew, assembled right in the middle of the bay, right in front of the doors, blocking the entrance of any ambulances that might need to come in.  
  
Frustrated, frightened, helpless, angry, and unable to contain himself any more, Malucci jumped up from his chair and stormed toward the ambulance bay doors. "Those sons of bitches!" he yelled. "Those damn, ignorant, inconsiderate sons of bitches!"  
  
"Dave!" Kerry called after him as he slammed his way out through the doors.  
  
"I've got him, Kerry," Luka assured her, placing his left hand on her shoulder. With his right, he gave Abby a quick squeeze of comfort, and then jogged off in pursuit of the hotheaded resident.  
  
The reporter had just completed his story when Dave appeared beside him. "Get the hell out of here!"  
  
The man simply snorted, turning his back on the angry doctor. "Freedom of the press, buddy. This is public property, and that Carter guy is one hell of a story. Almost stabbed to death a year ago, driven by the death of his own student...”  
  
Dave didn't say a word. His fist slammed into the side of the man's face before either of them realized what had happened. "He's not a story!" the resident screamed. "He's a person! He's a man, and a doctor, and my friend! He's not some goddamned story! Now get the hell out of here!"  
  
The reporter turned back around, cradling his sore jaw in his hand. "Man, that's it. I'm calling the cops. That's battery!"  
  
"Please do call the police," said a quiet, thickly accented voice from behind them. "You will save us the trouble. You are blocking the entrance to an emergency medical facility, and if you and your cameras are not out of here in thirty seconds, you will be arrested."  
  
The reporter motioned for the camera crew to pack up and move back out into the street. "You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" he called to Malucci as they left the ambulance bay.  
  
"Asshole!" Malucci replied.  
  
"Dave?" Luka stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on the resident's shoulder, not surprised to feel it shaking.  
  
"What if he's dead, Luka?" Dave asked quietly, his voice broken by emotion and angry tears. "What if he's dead, and all they care about is what kind of prize they might win with him, or what kind of scoop they're getting by being here when they bring his body in, or...” He broke off, unable to continue.  
  
Luka didn't answer. He didn't know what to say, and had a feeling that Malucci didn't really want an answer. He simply stood, his hand on the younger man's shoulder, giving him what comfort he could.  
  
After a few seconds, Dave straightened, drawing in a ragged breath and hurriedly wiping the tears from his cheeks. "He's not a damn story," he repeated, turning and walking back to the doors.  
  
"No, he's not," Luka whispered at his back. "He's so much more than that."


	9. Harry Truman High School (outside) - 11:39am

**Harry Truman High School (outside) - 11:39am**  
  
Peter and Mark stood alone in the middle of the street, watching the school buses that had been loaded with the minor injuries leave the scene, each heading for one of the three hospitals in the area. The expressions on their faces were indescribable. Both seemed to be in shock. They had performed their duties with precision; each seeming to run on automatic pilot, assessing the injuries and deciding which bus the injured person should be placed on. Neither could remember either face or name of even one of the people they had seen in the past 10 minutes. Only one face, only one name, dominated the minds of both men.  
  
Mark turned slowly, and walked to Benton's side. "That wasn't so bad," he commented, his voice hollow and empty.  
  
Peter didn't answer. He simply stood there, running his left hand up and down the fingers of his right repeatedly. He hadn't moved, and was now staring at an empty street. His mind was reeling from a torrent of emotions and unanswered questions that tumbled and collided within him. He felt numb, disconnected. It was something he had never felt before and normally he would have hated it, but at that moment he wasn't even aware of it.  
  
"We need to get back to the trucks, Peter," Mark said.  
  
Again Benton did not answer, but instead switched hands and began rubbing his left hand with his right.  
  
"Peter." Mark reached out and placed his hand gently on the surgeon's arm. "Peter, come on. We need to get back."  
  
Benton allowed Mark to lead him back to the safety of the fire trucks, and found his gaze drifting back to the window of the guidance counselor's office. Mark watched him, followed his eyes, and sighed. "It looks like we're going to have a few minutes of quiet, Peter. Why don't you go across the street there and get some coffee?"  
  
The surgeon shook his head slowly, forcing himself to look away from the building and back at Mark. "No. No, I'm fine. I just... I think I should stay here."  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Benton thought about that question before he answered it. Physically he was fine, although very tired. Truthfully, he was near exhaustion. He was on the end of a 12-hour shift as it was, and the added strain of the situation had drained him much more than a normal day would have. Mentally he was in much the same state, which he was sure was adding to the physical drain he felt. So how was he emotionally?  
  
Truth be told, he was an emotional wreck. He was feeling every emotion that he had ever experienced, and some he was only just discovering. Helpless, angry, scared, horrified, overwhelmed, restless, worried, impatient, uncertain, apprehensive, and a whole list that he didn't even have words to describe.  
  
He knew for a fact that Carter had been injured, if not killed. They had no way of knowing what had happened after the third floor had been evacuated. They had heard the long burst of shots that the teacher had told them had been aimed at Carter, and they had heard the five deliberate shots fired after that. No one else had come out of the building with any information for them, and no one had seen or heard anything from Carter since then.   
  
How was he?  
  
He was falling apart.  
  
"I'm fine," he answered.  
  
Mark smiled a knowing smile at the surgeon. "You've picked up a line or two from Carter, haven't you?"  
  
Benton sighed, only mildly surprised that Mark had picked up on the lie. "I just wish... I don't know, Mark. I really don't know."  
  
Mark looked at him in understanding. "I know, Peter. I feel the same way." Benton looked away from the window, purposely averting his gaze but finding nothing of interest to look at. "Trust him, Peter."  
  
"I do trust him," Benton answered, turning his eyes back to meet Mark's. "It's those kids I don't trust."  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (inside) - 11:47am**  
  
Carter pulled his knees up under him once more, raising himself just high enough to see through the bottom of the window in the library door. The back door that he had hoped for was there, tucked back in a small corridor right off the hallway at the top of the main stairs. A small storage closet to the right of the library door provided him with somewhere to hide, should any of the boys start to walk in his direction, and he had opened the door just far enough that he could duck inside quickly if it became necessary.  
  
From his sanctuary, Carter had been watching the scene in the library for the past five minutes. He had been correct in his concern about the number of casualties in the room. He did not have an unobstructed view of the entire length of the room, but the sight that he did have was more than enough. He couldn't imagine how those children in that room were managing to function in there. He was a trauma doctor; he had dedicated his life to helping those who came in to the emergency room, most of them bleeding, vomiting, or worse.  
  
What he saw in that room turned his stomach.  
  
He could see ten severely injured students on the floor. He was too far away to tell for certain if any of them were dead, but he was certain that at least some of them were. Some of the other students had taken up protective positions around the fallen. Carter was moved to see how much they all seemed to care for each other, and wondered if they had all known each other before this morning, or if they had never even spoken to each other. He was inclined to believe that it was probably the latter, but at this moment it didn't seem to matter to any of them. Whether they had known each other for years or only minutes, they were all in the same situation. It was definitely an eye-opening experience, at the very least.  
  
He glanced up quickly when he sensed a movement in the room, and saw the three boys heading right toward him. He ducked into the storage closet quickly, closing the door just as he heard the leader's voice echoing through the hall. "I mean it! If even one of you moves before we get back, you're all dead! There are 157 people in this room right now! There had better be 157 people in this room when we get back!"   
  
Carter jumped when he heard the gun going off. The sound cut through the flimsy wooden door like it wasn't even there, and he covered his ears with his hands, pushing himself into a far corner of the tiny room. It did no good; the gunshots and the screams that followed them still assaulted his hearing. He had to force himself to stay hidden; he wanted so badly to get in that room and make certain that no one else had been injured.  
  
"That's just to make sure you're paying attention!" he heard the boy yell again, followed by his inhuman laughter.  
  
Carter stayed where he was until he heard the sounds of three sets of footsteps walking away. "Donnie, you take upstairs. Search every room, every closet, every locker. Joe, you take the first floor. I'll take the basement. We find that stupid son of a bitch, and we kill him."  
  
John cringed, knowing just how close they had come to doing that already. The voice continued on, lecturing the other two, fading away as they moved down the main hallway toward the stairs. Carter crawled back to the door and opened it, risking a glance out. The three were nowhere to be seen, and he could hear the distant echo of their feet on the stairs. Taking a deep breath, he lunged out of the closet and into the library in one movement.  
  
The students nearest the back door started to scream when they saw him, and he waved his arms at them. "Quiet!" he ordered. "Do you want them to come back?"  
  
The screams ceased, and Carter limped slowly toward the middle of the room. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help. My name's John." He looked around at the floor, and felt his stomach lurch into his throat. The ten casualties that he had seen from the door had been nothing compared to what he found in the middle and front of the room. With nothing more than a cursory glance around, he had already counted another 20 or so lying on the floor, and those who were able to sit up were too numerous to count.  
  
"We don't have much time," he announced to them, keeping his voice low but still loud enough to be heard by the entire room. "They'll be back in just a few minutes. We've got to get as many of you as possible out of here before they come back. Now, those who have been injured, raise your hand if you can walk." A few hands went up, but not as many as he had been hoping. "If you can walk if someone helps you," he continued hopefully, relieved to see several more. "All right. That's good. Now, if you're not hurt, how many of you think you can carry someone else?" A group of large boys toward the front of the room, most likely football players from the looks of them, all raised their hands without hesitation. "All right. All right, very good. Now, here's how we're going to do this...”  
  
"What about the people who can't walk and can't be carried?" a boy's voice interrupted him.  
  
Carter turned toward the voice, shocked and surprised to see the young man kneeling beside a girl who appeared to have been shot in the side, and was obviously very pregnant. He drew in a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to say would not be well-received, but also knowing that it was the only way the rest would survive.  
  
"They'll have to stay here," he answered, immediately throwing his hands up to quiet the protests. "I'm staying with them," he continued. "I'm a doctor, and I can take care of them until the paramedics get here to take them to the hospital. Believe me, kids, this is almost over now. As soon as you're all out of here, the police will go ahead and come in."  
  
"I'm not leaving," the boy beside the pregnant girl said, ignoring her weak grasp on his arm and her feeble attempts at protest.  
  
Carter walked toward him quickly, trying to calculate in his mind how much time he'd already spent. These kids should be on their way out by now. "Son, listen to me... what's your name?"  
  
"Daniel. Daniel Thaden."  
  
"Daniel, I know that you're worried about her. But she'll be fine. I'll be right here until the paramedics...”  
  
"Dr. John, sir, this is my girlfriend. The baby is my son. I can't leave them in here without me."  
  
Carter immediately understood the boy's determination to stay. He knew it would take something more powerful than just his word that this was about to end to pry him from the girl's side. It would take something important. A special job that he could convince Daniel that only he could do. And he knew just the thing.  
  
"Daniel, listen to me. I need you to go outside... no, listen. I've got friends out there, two of them, both of them doctors. I need you to take a message to them for me. It's very important that they get this message. It has to get to them quickly, and it has to be exactly what I say. Can you do that?"  
  
"I don't want to leave!"  
  
"Daniel, if they're going to come in here to help her, to help all of them, they need to know exactly what to bring. You have got to tell them what to bring. Please?"  
  
Daniel took a few seconds to think, his eyes darting back and forth between his injured girlfriend and the doctor who seemed to so desperately need his help. "All right," he whispered. "What do you want me to tell them?"  
  
"Good man, Daniel. I knew you were the right man for the job." Carter turned around quickly, motioning for everyone who was able to get to their feet. "Everyone, move to the back door. If the person beside you needs your help to get out of here, or needs your help to get down the stairs, then you help them. You boys," he said quickly, gesturing at the football players. "Come over here." The boys did as they were told, following Carter around the room as he pointed out to them the students who were too injured to leave on their own but not too badly hurt to be carried. He helped each of them to lift their burdens as well as he could, his limp becoming more pronounced with each step he took. In a matter of moments, the group was assembled at the double doors that led out into the small hallway, and Carter gave them their final instructions.   
  
"When I say to go, you go as quickly as you can. Go directly to the stairs and down. Move just as fast as you possibly can, but stay together. If you're not helping someone or carrying someone, throw your hands in the air just as soon as you're out the door. Get to the fire trucks, and get behind them. The police will know what to do with the injured once you get them behind the trucks. But you've got to get there quickly. Those three could be headed back this way by now."  
  
"Dr. John?" Daniel asked, and Carter turned toward him.  
  
"Daniel?"  
  
"They said they were going to go find someone and kill him," Daniel whispered, uncertain how many of the others had heard the three talking. "Who are they looking for?"  
  
Carter didn't answer at first, but looked back to the group of students at the door. "Go, kids. Get out of here, and hurry." They started moving out, the football players with the seriously injured going first, followed by the minor injuries that needed help, and then the unaided and uninjured. "Keep going. Do not stop, no matter what you hear. If you hear one of them yelling at you to stop, you run faster. Go." As the last as of the group started through the doors, Carter turned back to Daniel quickly.  
  
"You need to find Dr. Benton and Dr. Greene. Dr. Benton is black, and Dr. Greene is balding. You should be able to find them with no problem. If you don't see them right away, ask someone. You need to find them and tell them that Carter says for them to bring 30 intubation kits, and as many units of blood as they can find. Tell them that they're going to need every ambulance and every medevac chopper in the city." Carter paused, wondering if he should send a personal message out too, and decided on a brief one. "And tell them that I'm all right. That's what you need to tell them, Daniel. Can you do that?"  
  
Daniel nodded his head, feeling in his heart that the doctors would have known that they needed those things anyway. "You didn't answer me, Dr. John. Who are they looking for?"  
  
Carter sighed, looking straight into the boy's eyes. "They're looking for me, Daniel. Those boys are looking for me. That's why I need you to hurry."  
  
The boy looked shocked at first, but recovered quickly. "I'll tell them, Dr. John," he said, jogging to the door. "Take care of her for me. Please." And then he was gone.  
  
Carter watched him leave, the door closing slowly behind him, and let out the breath that he had been holding. He was almost done. He had succeeded in getting the last of the evacuable kids out of the building. Now all he had to do was to keep the ones that had been left behind alive long enough for the police to storm the building and end this.  
  
His leg was throbbing badly, and he lowered his eyes to look at it. The bleeding had slowed considerably, although it hadn't yet stopped completely. As the last of his adrenaline started to fade, he felt all of his injuries much more acutely. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, the room now quiet enough for him to hear the moans and soft sobbing from those he had been forced to keep there.   
  
"It's all right, kids," he whispered, opening his eyes and turning around slowly. "I'm still here. I'm not going to leave you. It's all going to be over very soon. You're going to be all right." John pressed his hand against his thigh again, limping slowly away from the door and back toward the fallen, ready to begin his count of the living and the dead.


	10. County General Hospital - 11:53am

**County General Hospital - 11:53am**  
  
"Randi, is anything happening?" Kerry asked, walking around the end of the admit desk so that she could see the television.  
  
"Nothing in a while, Dr. Weaver," the clerk answered. "Not since they announced that we have a raving lunatic on staff in the ER."  
  
Dave Malucci flinched at her words and looked up, expecting to see two angry faces staring at him. He was pleasantly surprised to see that they were instead smiling softly in his direction, and he smiled back. "Hey," he said with a shrug. "Gotta be me, ya know?"  
  
Kerry chuckled lightly, feeling almost overwhelmed by the sense of unity that had settled around her staff in the past hour and half. "We're all raving lunatics sometimes, Dave. Just try not to be one in front of a TV camera next time."  
  
"Any word on Carter?" Luka asked, joining the group at the desk.  
  
"Nothing," Dave answered, pushing himself away from the counter he had been leaning against. "There've been a few more shots fired, but no one else has come out."  
  
"So we've got nothing more coming in?"  
  
"Not at the moment, no," Kerry answered. "How is that last load of minors going?"  
  
"Almost done," Luka answered, taking a seat behind the desk. "Dr. Chen is just waiting on one last set of x-rays on an ankle injury. The rest have already been treated, and most of them have been picked up already." He paused, not really wanting to know the answer to the question he was about to ask. "How are the others? How do we stand now?"  
  
Kerry sighed, remembering none-to-fondly her last discussion with Romano. He was still holding her responsible for Benton's absence from the hospital, and had even begun attacking Peter and Mark's fieldwork on the patients that had been sent up. "We've seen 32 major traumas so far; 56 minors. We've sent 20 up for surgery; 16 are in recovery and 4 are still in the OR. We've had 5 admitted to Medicine or the ICU. And we've lost 5 here, with 2 DOA's."  
  
"Only seven," Dave thought out loud. "Well, that's not so bad... really." He looked up when he felt everyone staring at him. "It could have been a lot worse, when you think about it," he stammered. "I mean, it's bad, but it's not as bad as it could have been...”  
  
"It's not over yet, Dave," Kerry interrupted softly. "The last count from the school has another 185 people unaccounted for. They don't know for sure how many are still in the building, and how many either ran away before they could be counted or skipped school to begin with. And we don't know how many of those could be injured...”  
  
"Or how badly," Abby put in. They all turned to look at her; she was standing behind the board, looking through it at them. None of them knew how long she had been there, but she'd obviously been listening to the conversation for a while. "After all, we know for a fact that there's at least one person in that building with at least one bullet hole in him." Shoving her hands down into the pockets of her scrub jacket, she turned silently and walked into the lounge.  
  
No one at the desk spoke. Abby's words had hit home with all of them. None of them had forgotten about Carter and the situation that he found himself in, but none of them had been willing to speak about it since they had heard the reports that the last time he had been seen the gunmen were chasing him down the third floor hallway. They couldn't stand the speculating any more.  
  
Luka started to stand to follow Abby, but Kerry owed him for chasing Dave down earlier. "I'll go speak to her, Luka. You stay out here and keep an eye on things." Luka nodded and resumed his seat, turning back to the television as Kerry made her way around the desk and to the lounge door.  
  
"Abby?" Kerry pushed the door open slowly, expecting to hear Abby crying. "Abby, are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine," came the soft answer from the end of the couch behind the door.  
  
Kerry stood back and allowed the door to close then pulled a chair away from the table and sat down opposite the nurse. "Abby?"  
  
Abby looked up at her for a few seconds, and then back down at her hands. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I know that I should be concerned about the patients, but I can't be. I can't even concentrate right now. Every time I see one... every gunshot, every broken bone, every...” she trailed off, her silent weeping suddenly stealing her voice, her lips unable to form the words, the images in her mind too vivid to escape. "Every time one of those people, one of those kids, dies, Dr. Weaver, all I can think of is John. Every face that I see lying on a gurney is his. Every voice that I hear asking if they're going to be all right is his. And it's wrong. I should be able to shut him out of my mind while I'm working, but I can't. I'm sorry."  
  
"Abby, you don't have anything to be sorry for. Your level of patient care hasn't suffered from this. You're still doing your job; we're all doing our job." She paused to make certain that the nurse was listening to her, and then continued. "This isn't easy for any of us. We're all worried about him. And we're all thinking about him. But right now, we do need to concentrate on the patients that we have coming in. I can only guess why he didn't leave when he had the chance, and I am sure that he knew what he was doing. He wants us to help these kids. He doesn't want us to be so worried about him that we forget why he's in there."  
  
"Why did it have to be him?" Abby asked, leaning back on the couch.  
  
"I don't know," Kerry answered honestly. "But it is. And right now, he's the only chance those kids have of getting out of that building. And if they're injured, we're the only chance they have of surviving. He knows that. I think he's counting on it."  
  
"I know," Abby whispered.  
  
Kerry let the silence hang between them for a few seconds, then leaned forward and placed her hand on Abby's knee. "He's going to be all right, Abby. Just believe that, and you'll be fine."  
  
"Dr. Weaver!" Randi's frantic voice startled both women as she burst through the lounge door. "Dr. Weaver, something's happening!"  
  
They stood and followed her back to the admit desk, freezing as they saw the scene playing out on the television in front of them.  
  
"Another mass evacuation," the announcer was saying. "We believe that... yes, yes, it does appear that this is a mass evacuation of the second floor of Building One, the building that they gunmen have been concentrating on. We're seeing multiple casualties this time; we've not seen this many at one time since the beginning of the siege earlier this morning. We're trying to get someone to the evacuation area to find out just what's happened, but the police are keeping everyone away for the time being. We're seeing the doctors on-scene moving toward the group now. Ladies and gentlemen, please stay with us. We'll get the information to you just as soon as we have it...”  
  
"County General, this is Cook County Sheriff. Respond!"   
  
Kerry grabbed the microphone and spun to the board. "This is County General, we read."  
  
"County General, be advised, mass casualties heading your way. Medevac is leaving scene with the first of the criticals."  
  
"How many?" Kerry asked, trying not to look back at the television, watching as her staff jumped into action immediately. Luka and Dave had already headed for the roof to meet the first helicopter when it landed; Haleh and the nurses were bustling around making certain that everyone had gowns, gloves, and goggles; Randi was already on the phone with the blood bank, ordering O-neg and putting them on standby for more.  
  
"We don't know, County. We've not gotten a number yet, but there are a lot of them this time. I'm right beside your docs, though, so as soon as they...” His voice trailed off, and Kerry could hear someone shouting at the man on the other end of the radio. "Say again?" he shouted back.  
  
"County Sheriff, what have you...?”  
  
"Hold on, County. I can't hear you!" the man shouted at the muffled voice she was hearing.  
  
"Tell her that he's all right!" came the reply, much louder this time. The voice was Mark Greene.  
  
"Doc, what the...?"  
  
"Tell Weaver that Carter got a message out, and he's all right! But he's got 30 more inside with him, all critical!" That was all she understood, as Mark moved off again, and she could see him in her mind, running back toward the sudden eruption of mayhem.  
  
"County, be advised...”  
  
"I heard him, County Sheriff. We are implementing mass trauma protocol. Send us what you've got. We'll be ready. County General out." She threw the microphone down on the counter and reached for a gown, walking down the hallway as quickly as she could, shouting out the news she had heard as went. "Carter's all right, but he's got mass casualties on their way to us. Let's get our heads in the game, people. We've got a job to do!"  
  
The distant sound of thumping rotors grew louder as the first of the medevac choppers made its landing on the roof.  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (outside) - 11:58am**  
  
Chaos was an understatement. Panic was an understatement. And as Mark Greene looked around at the scene in front of him, he realized that the depths of Hell itself was an understatement.  
  
Bodies lay strewn across the street, their blood seeping from their wounds, soaking their clothing, beginning to pool on the pavement. Medevac choppers were landing in and taking off from every available space. Doctors, paramedics, EMTs, firemen, and policemen ran around like ants swarming on a disregarded jellybean. Ambulances weaved their way through the human maze, retrieving the most seriously injured and speeding away with them. Sirens blared and lights flashed. Doctors shouted to each other, and to be heard over each other. Reporters and news helicopters hovered everywhere, trying to get the best shot or the most exclusive interviews, their well-intentioned concern for information insuring that they were constantly in the way.  
  
And yet, through it all, Mark Greene managed to catch Peter Benton's smile, and returned one of his own before devoting his full attention to the injured teenager on the ground in front of him.  
  
Almost all of the students and teachers had been evacuated from the building. The police, in their riot gear, were already preparing the small teams that would enter the building to attempt to arrest the gunmen. After almost two hours, this nightmare was almost over.  
  
But there was something more important than even all of that, at least to Mark Greene and Peter Benton. They both worked on with a renewed sense of purpose, their moods improved significantly by the news they had both been waiting to hear since they had first arrived.  
  
Carter was all right.  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (inside) - 12:03pm**  
  
Thirty-seven people lay on the floor of the library.  
  
John Carter finished his cursory examination of the last of them, and reached out to gently close the young boy's eyes, closing his own against the tears that had been threatening to fall from them for the past five minutes. He had moved from person to person, making mental notes of the injuries, and doing what small amount he could to comfort them in their pain and fear. He had also kept track of those who were beyond his meager human help.  
  
Thirty-seven people lay on the floor of the library.  
  
Nineteen of them were already dead.  
  
He still couldn't quite believe this was really happening. He lifted his head, opening his eyes and looking out across the sea of bodies before him. There was still a part of him that was convinced this was all some horrifying nightmare, and that he would wake in a few moments to find himself asleep on the couch in the lounge at work. The entire day had had an air of unreality about it; the sheer number of dead children in the library was insanity.  
  
He allowed himself to lean back against the wall, taking as much weight off of his constantly throbbing leg as he could. It was still bleeding, and he found himself hoping more with each moment that passed that the police would arrive. He knew they would now; it was only a matter of seconds before they came bursting through the doors. He was safe now, and knew that his own injuries would be attended to in the order that they merited.  
  
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, wondering again what could possibly have driven these children to do something so horrible. He thought in particular about the boy he had seen at the bottom of the stairs, about the fear and confusion in his eyes. The other two, Carter had to admit, he didn't really care what happened to. But he did hope that the boy the others had called Donnie survived.   
  
Carter thought back over his own days in high school, smiling for the first time in what seemed like days as his mind drifted back. He vividly remembered the sights and sounds of his school; the voices of his friends in the hallway between classes, the brightly colored clothes they all thought looked so wonderful on them, and the foot-high hairdos the girls had worn. He could smell the popcorn in the gymnasium lobby during basketball games, the freshly cut grass on the football field; could hear the band practicing in their isolated band room at the top of the back stairs, see the cheap paper streamers that had decorated the gym walls for dances. He let himself sink deeper and deeper into the perfect innocence of it all, and now could hear the sub-standard sound system blaring out the music that had filled his high school years.  
  
Duran Duran had been one of his favorites then. They wore more makeup than his mother did, but that had only proved how cool they truly were. What was that song that they had played at Homecoming his sophomore year? It was from a James Bond movie... Dance Into the Fire? He concentrated, calling up in his mind the words to a song he hadn't heard in years. He couldn't recall the entire thing, just random lines here and there. Secure in his belief that the police would be the next people he saw, he allowed himself to make remembering the words to that song a priority in his life.  
  
The words flooded from somewhere then, and he could hear Simon LeBon's voice in his head, singing as if from a long way off, echoing down through the years.  
  
Until we dance into the fire  
That fatal kiss is all we need  
Dance into the fire  
To fatal sounds of broken dreams  
  
He smiled, letting the comforting memories engulf him. How many hours had he spent lying on his bed listening to this song?  
  
A chance to find the phoenix for the flame  
A chance to die...  
  
His eyes shot open, and he spun his head, suddenly aware that someone was standing beside him. He lost his balance and fell to the side, pain shooting down the side of his leg. As he stared down the barrel of the gun that was pointed directly at his forehead, he remembered the name of the song.  
  
A View To a Kill.


	11. Harry Truman High School (inside) - 12:12PM

**Harry Truman High School (inside) - 12:12PM**  
  
Carter forced himself to start breathing again, and willed his heart to slow down. He looked up from his position on the floor, his eyes locking instantly on the open end of that gun. With a deep breath and considerable effort, he pushed his eyes past the muzzle, up the length of the barrel, up the stock, and finally to the face of the person at the other end. He was already breathing a bit easier, knowing that if the person holding the weapon had truly intended to kill him, he would have been dead already. He allowed himself a silent sigh of relief, though, when he saw who it was.  
  
"Donnie," he tried to say, but his voice was so weak and broken that only the first two letters could be heard. He swallowed, and spoke again. "Donnie."  
  
The boy didn't move; didn't blink. He simply stood there, holding his gun only inches from Carter's face, his own face a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and innocence. His head slightly tilted to one side, he reminded Carter not so much of a gun-toting maniac bent on bloodshed as a lost puppy dog. Carter knew he had a chance with this kid... if he could just buy himself some time.  
  
"So are you going to shoot me or not?" The second the words left his lips, he wished he could call them back. It wasn't exactly the most intelligent thing he could have said, given the circumstances.  
  
"No."  
  
Even though Carter had already figured that Donnie wasn't a murderer, the speed and directness with which he answered was surprising. "No?"  
  
Donnie shook his head slightly. "No. Frank told me too... but I don't even really know how to fire this thing." For the briefest second, Carter considered explaining what a trigger was... but thought better of it this time. "Besides... I don't want to kill anybody."  
  
"Well, then, would you kindly get your gun out of my face?" Carter had complete control again, both of himself and of his immediate situation, and his voice was rock-steady, with just a hint of adult annoyance in it.  
  
Donnie shrugged and dropped the gun to his side, glancing around the room as he did so. "It doesn't look to me like there's 157 people in here."  
  
Carter rested his wounded arm on his left knee, and leaned back on his right. "That's because there's not. There's thirty-seven."  
  
"Joe's gonna be pissed when he gets back in here." Donnie turned back to face him again, the same expression on his face as before. "He's gonna kill you, ya know."  
  
"Well then, let's just hope that Joe doesn't come back." Carter took a deep breath and pushed down with his hand, doing the best he could to keep all of his weight on his left leg as he struggled to his feet, trying to make it look as though he weren't struggling. It took every ounce of control he had, but he finally managed to stand, bouncing a bit on his left foot as he did. "The police will be here soon."  
  
"Yeah... I know," Donnie answered quietly, looking back down at the injured students on the floor.  
  
Carter limped to the boy's side, following his gaze as he did so. He couldn't help but wonder what this boy was thinking, what had driven him, why was he doing this when it was so obvious he didn't want to. So preoccupied with his own questions was he that he barely heard Donnie's.  
  
"Are any of them dead?"  
  
Carter thought for a moment about lying to him, telling him that they were all still alive. But he knew that wasn't the case, and no matter how much he wished it were, lying wouldn't change that fact. "Some of them are, yes." He answered quietly, standing close enough to Donnie that he could speak to him without being overheard.  
  
Silence descended around the two of them. Donnie didn't speak, and Carter didn't know what to say. He could hear labored breathing from behind him, and the quiet moans of pain and sobs from the children, and turned toward them again. He had told them to stay quiet; that they would all be all right, that he would take care of them, that they'd be getting out of here soon.  
  
"I didn't know."  
  
Carter returned his gaze to the young man beside him. "Didn't know what?"  
  
"This," he answered, lifting his head to indicate the carnage on the library floor. "I didn't know they were going to do this."  
  
Carter was stunned. "You didn't know?" His voice was rising, and he knew that the others in the room could hear him now, but he didn't care. All of his pain, his frustration, his anger he focused on Donnie. Maybe the boy hadn't started it, but he was part of it, and Carter let his emotions overrun his better judgment. "You didn't know! You walked into this building this morning with a gun in your hand and you didn't know? Just what in the hell did you think was going to happen?!"  
  
"I don't know," the boy whispered, his voice breaking at the end. "They told me... they told me we were gonna be famous. And Frank handed me this." He was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks as his eyes scanned the faces that were the focus of his friends' anger. "This... this damn thing!"  
  
Carter watched in shock as Donnie hurled the gun across the room, where it landed on the floor a few feet from the pregnant girl and skidded to a stop against a bookcase.  
  
"I can't stand this!" Donnie cried. "I don't want to be part of this! I don't know what's happening! I don't know why they're doing this! I don't want to be part of it! I just wanna go home!"  
  
"Donnie," Carter said, his voice softer this time. "You are part of it. There's nothing that can change that now. And you can't just go home."  
  
Donnie closed his eyes as the tears rolled down his face. "I know," he whispered. He sniffed, and opened his eyes again, looking directly at Carter. "I didn't want to hurt anybody."  
  
Carter nodded slightly, and he found himself thinking that when the police did arrive, he would tell them everything he knew about this boy. He hadn't told his friends when he had seen him standing in the stairwell, and his protests seemed sincere. Maybe he was just a confused kid; maybe he had just fallen in with "the wrong crowd." But no matter what the circumstances that had lead to his being here, this boy that was standing in front of him now was no murderer, of that much Carter was certain.  
  
"Dr. John?!" The voice was female, and sounded panic-stricken. "Dr. John!"  
  
He turned quickly, and immediately located the source of the voice. It was the pregnant girl, Daniel's girlfriend... Kristin was her name. She was holding her belly and breathing heavily, and Carter, knowing immediately what was wrong, moved to her side as quickly as he could, leaving Donnie standing alone near the door.  
  
"Kristin... contractions?" he asked, kneeling carefully beside her, ignoring the pain from his leg as best he could.  
  
She nodded in response, her whole body shaking in time with her rapid panting.  
  
"Did your water break?"  
  
She shook her head. "I don't... I don't think so. I don't know."  
  
"Believe me, Kristin, if it had, you'd know." He moved his hands over her belly, feeling the tightened muscles under the skin as the young girl tried to bite back a cry of pain. "How long have you been having them?"  
  
"I don't know... I started feeling... something... right after Daniel left. Kinda like cramps... didn't really hurt... but it's been getting worse. It's starting to hurt real bad now."  
  
Carter glanced at his watch, and did some quick calculations in his head. It had been almost half an hour since the others had made it out of the building. And Kristin had, apparently, been making her way into hard labor the entire time. "How far along are you?"  
  
"Um... I don't know. My due date's June 6."  
  
June 6. And it was only April 24. That put her at almost 34 weeks. A baby born in the hospital would have a chance now, but on the floor of a library, with no pediatricians and no NICU to send him to, and a mother with a bullet wound in her side... he needed to know how much time he had left, and if the labor were still stoppable, but short of performing a pelvic on the girl, there was no way.  
  
"Kristin... Kristin, you know it's too soon, don't you?"  
  
The girl nodded, tears running from the edges of her tightly-closed eyes. She threw her head back and a cry of agony escaped her lips as another contraction gripped her, less than three minutes after the last.  
  
Carter felt the taut muscles again, and there was no mistaking that this one was stronger than the other. He closed his eyes briefly, and sent up a quick prayer to God to help him. If the police didn't come in the next few minutes, he was going to have to deliver this baby. He wouldn't have a choice. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that one, if not both, of them was going to die.  
  
"Hey Mister!" he heard Donnie call out, and ignored him. "Hey, Mister!" he called again, running to Carter's side.  
  
"Donnie... we have a problem."  
  
"Yeah, we do."  
  
"She's in labor, Donnie. If no one gets here... I'm going to need your help. Do you think you can help me?"  
  
Donnie nodded quickly, his eyes darting between Carter's face and the door. "Yeah, yeah, Mister, I could help. But we've got another problem."  
  
"What?"  
  
"They're coming back."  
  


* * *

  
 **County General Hospital - 12:24pm**  
  
'Barely controlled chaos.'  
  
'No... no, that's giving us too much credit. Completely out of control chaos.'  
  
She ran down the hall at full tilt, praying that the supplies she had been sent for were where they were supposed to be. Her thoughts on the atmosphere in the ER were dead-on accurate, but she was almost grateful for them. At least if she were pondering the way the past 20 minutes or so had been handled, or concentrating on finding some little bit of equipment, she didn't have time to think about him. About how he was all alone, and injured, and how he needed her, and she needed him, and how much he really did mean to her, and what would she do if he suddenly weren't there, and there wasn't a tomorrow, and what if she never got the chance to tell him that she...   
  
'Damn it, stop it!' she scolded herself internally. 'Stop thinking about him like he's going to die! Think about what you're doing!'  
  
And then, the vital supplies retrieved from their correct place, Abby Lockhart turned and ran back down the hall, almost plowing into Kerry Weaver as she did so.  
  
"Sorry, Dr. Weaver!" she called out as she burst through the doors to the trauma room. She didn't even know if Kerry answered her or not.  
  
Kerry actually didn't even hear Abby's rapid apology, nor had she really noticed that she had almost been knocked to the ground by the hurried nurse. She was leading the way to the elevator for yet another child on his way to surgery. This particular boy was on his way to an emergency splendectomy. The girl before him had gone up for kidney surgery; the boy before her to have a bullet removed from his skull; the girl before him...  
  
It was rapidly becoming almost too much for Kerry Weaver. In all the years she had been an emergency physician, in all that she had done and all that she had seen, she had thought herself prepared for anything. But this... this was nothing she had ever even imagined. All these children, all these innocent young people; it was all so senseless. She had lost count of how many people had been brought through those doors, or down from that roof. All of their faces were swirling through her mind, their various injuries blending together until her perception was of one big bloody hell. For that was what her beloved ER had suddenly become, a hell on Earth.  
  
And even as she hurried back to the impromptu triage center that had been created in chairs, the steady thump thump thump of a landing helicopter could be heard.  
  
This hellacious day was far, far from over.


	12. Harry Truman High School (outside) - 12:29pm

**Harry Truman High School (outside) - 12:29pm**  
  
"What the hell is taking so long?" Peter Benton demanded of Bill Thomas, the policeman nearest him.  
  
Thomas rolled his eyes, again, and sighed. "Look, Doc, I've already told you. We're ready to go in. And we will... just as soon as we're certain that all of the gunmen are in one place."  
  
Mark Greene had stepped up to Benton's side, and placed a hand on his arm. "Peter, you need to back off now."  
  
Peter shrugged the other doctor off. "And how are you supposed to know that if you're out here?"  
  
"Now look...” Thomas began, his voice rising as he reached the end of his patience.  
  
"No, you look!" Peter shot back, again pulling away from Greene's attempts to restrain him. "We've got critically injured kids in there. We don't know how much longer we have. And while you're standing out here, they're dying in there! How much longer are you going to let that happen?!"  
  
"For the fifth time, Doc, we're not going to just go running in there! We're not going to risk the lives of our people when we aren't even sure where these kids are! Now, once we get the all clear, we'll go in. But until then...”  
  
Something made Peter look up at that moment.  
  
Everything seemed to happen at once. Two of the shades that had been covering the windows in the library disappeared. For just the briefest instant he saw Carter's face in the window. Then the sound of what seemed like hundreds of gunshots came from inside the building. Bullets ripped through the air, fired from the top of the building across the street.  
  
And then silence.  
  
"No!"  
  


* * *

  
 **Harry Truman High School (inside) - 12:18pm**  
  
"What?" Carter looked around in near panic at the injured students still on the floor of the library. 'No!' his mind screamed. 'No! If they come back now, we're all dead!'   
  
"Mister, look, you need to get out of here. Now!" Donnie said urgently, pushing Carter toward the back door of the room.   
  
Carter tried to stand his ground, but found himself being pushed back toward the hall, his right leg dragging slightly in front of him. "No, Donnie, I can't. I can't leave them!" he answered urgently, reaching back over the young man's shoulder, stretching his arm out to Kristin as the young girl arched her back and writhed in pain, biting her lip to keep from crying out. "Kristin... no, Donnie, no!"   
  
He grabbed Donnie's forearms, squeezing with as much strength as he had left, trying to make the boy stop. "Donnie, I can't. If I leave, they'll kill them."  
  
Donnie did stop then, and stared the doctor straight in the eye. "If you stay, they'll kill you."  
  
Carter opened his mouth to speak, his eyes welling with tears as he looked at the faces that were turned toward him now. "Go, Dr. John," a boy across the room said quietly, sadly. "You've done all you can. You should leave while you still have a chance to get out."  
  
"No, Mario...," he pleaded, his voice quivering with desperation.  
  
"Go," the boy said again, and the word was echoed in the voices of all those who could speak. Even Kristin looked over and nodded her head at him in agreement.  
  
"Go, Mister," Donnie said urgently, glancing nervously back at the far door to the room. "You have to leave now."  
  
"Donnie, please...!" he began.  
  
The sound of a door opening at the other end of the room stopped his pleading, as Donnie, taking advantage of Carter's weakened state, grasped the doctor's arms and pushed him behind a bookcase, stooping to retrieve his discarded weapon, and spinning back around to face the new arrivals all in one motion. By the time Frank and Joe could see the interior section of the library, Donnie was walking toward them, his gun slung across his shoulder, looking for all the world like he had just come through the other door.  
  
"What the hell...?" Frank began, staring in disbelief at the floor. "They left?!"  
  
"That son of a bitch!" Joe cried out, lifting his own gun to his hip. "Where the hell is he? Donnie, did you see him?"  
  
"No," Donnie answered evenly, forcing himself to look at them, knowing how easy it would be to give the doctor's position away. "Nobody passed me out there."  
  
"If nobody passed you," Frank began, his voice filled with thought. "If nobody passed you, and nobody passed us, then that means..."  
  
Joe's eyes narrowed to slits as he surveyed the room carefully. "He's still in here."  
  
Carter watched from his hiding place behind the double row of bookcases, lowering his head a bit further behind the books, his left knee on the ground and his right leg bent slightly off to the side. This time, there was no metal door to lock and hide behind, and there would be no biting his hand to keep from being found. They knew he was in the room with them; it was only a matter of time before they figured out where.  
  
He watched as the two boys motioned for Donnie to stay where he was, and began slowly walking behind and between the bookcases at the front of the library, searching. Carter was frozen to the floor, his own fear finally threatening to overtake him. They might have been children, and they might have been throwing a temper tantrum, but the toys they were playing with were deadly, and the playmates they were squabbling over were dying. And unlike Donnie, who still had a child's heart beating in his chest, they had shown no signs of compassion or mercy. Neither of them would hesitate to kill him, of that he had no doubt.  
  
Carter glanced at Donnie quickly, catching his eye immediately. As they stared directly at each other, Donnie shot his own gaze quickly to the right, telling Carter exactly where the other two were without saying a word. Carter nodded back at him, keeping his own movements slow and hopefully unnoticeable. The two boys rounded the last set of bookcases and walked toward the middle of the room, so close to Carter's sanctuary that he could hear them breathing as they passed him. He looked at Donnie quickly, and the boy confirmed with a solitary nod that they were heading for the center row to his right. Carter began inching his way to his left, never taking his eyes off of Donnie's.  
  
They were thinking the exact same thing: if Carter timed it perfectly, he would be able to slip around the end of the bookcases without being seen by either of the two boys who hunted him. He waited for the signal from Donnie, staring intently at the boy's face as he watched his companions take their first steps between the towers of books. A heartbeat later, Donnie jerked his eyes to his right, and Carter reached his arm out, grabbing the space between the bookcases and pushing forward with his left leg. He dragged his right out of the aisle and out of sight just as the two boys made their way into it, looking left and right, swinging their guns as they turned.  
  
Carter leaned his head back against the wood behind him, closing his eyes for just a fraction of a second, fighting to keep his rapid breathing inaudible, praying that the beating of his own heart wouldn't give away his location. Then he straightened up and pushed his back against the cases, opening his eyes and turning his head slightly to the side, straining to hear the footsteps he dreaded. When he heard nothing, he looked again to Donnie.  
  
The boy moved his eyes from Carter's location back to the opening between the bookcases, then blinked and looked back at Carter again. The doctor heaved a silent sigh: they weren't coming in his direction, and they couldn't see him from where they were. Carter spared himself a second to look at the injured students scattered on the floor around him. None of them were looking at him, not even in his general direction. He thanked them in his mind, grateful to them for the protection they were giving him.  
  
A moan from across the room caught Carter's attention, and he turned quickly back to Donnie, who was staring straight ahead with urgency in his eyes. Frank and Joe, apparently convinced that Carter wasn't hiding behind the bookcases, were making their way back to the center of the room again. Carter slowly raised himself to his left knee, slipping back behind the books as silently as he had departed their relative safety. He glanced at Donnie one more time, and briefly saw a smile flash through the boy's eyes. He was safe... for now.  
  
"But I don't get it, Frank," Joe was saying, slinging his weapon casually across his right shoulder. "He has to be here. He's gotta! There ain't nowhere else he coulda gone. He wouldn't've had time!"  
  
Frank didn't answer immediately, but stopped walking and looked down. The young boy that had called out to Carter to run was sitting at his feet, his hands pressed against his profusely bleeding leg. Carter took a moment to call to mind his diagnosis: Mario had two bullet wounds in his left thigh, both with exit wounds in the back of his leg, and a third bullet had entered his knee, shattering the kneecap and lodging itself deep in the tissue. He would almost certainly need his leg amputated, and he would spend several weeks in the hospital, but he would live.  
  
"He's here," Frank said slowly, turning his head ever so slightly to his left, casting a glance back over his shoulder almost directly at Carter. Carter saw the expression on his face then, saw the depth of the boy's disturbance in the evil smile that snaked across his lips. "And he's going to come out now."  
  
Horrified, shaking his head and mouthing the word 'no' over and over again, Carter stood and tried to run. His right leg was now almost completely useless, and it tripped him as he dragged it behind him. Carter hit the floor at the exact second the gun went off, and he froze, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. 'No!' his mind screamed. 'No, no he didn't. He didn't... '  
  
The renewed screams from the other children in the room confirmed Carter's own thoughts.   
  
Mario did not scream with them.  
  
John Carter laid his head on the floor, feeling the hot tears run down his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. 'Wake up, John,' he told himself. 'This nightmare has gone too far. Wake up! Wake up, damn it, and make it stop!' But he knew; he knew that he couldn't make it stop. He was completely powerless against these boys. It wasn't a dream. It was an horrific waking nightmare.   
  
And it was real as hell.  
  
"Hey, asshole!" he heard Frank yell out. "Been trying to get your attention all day, asshole. But you... you ain't been listenin' to me. You better come out now. I'll shoot 'em all. I'll kill 'em all, and it'll be your fault they're dead."  
  
"No," Carter whispered, pushing himself slowly to his feet, feeling the power surge inside of him again. The despair, the anger, the terror - all of the bile that he had vented at Donnie only moments before - he let it well up inside of him, drawing strength from it. Mario was dead. Nineteen other children in the library, and God knew how many upstairs, lay cold and lifeless on the hard floor. Twenty lives, that he knew of, ended in a heartbeat on the whim of a maniac. Kristin and her child were dying. A mother who would never hold her child; a child who would never have a chance to grow, to learn, to love and be loved; a father who would never forgive himself for leaving them. And how many other mothers and fathers would never hold their children again? Never be able to tell them how much they loved them? How many lives had this boy destroyed in a matter of little more than two hours?  
  
'How many more?' Carter demanded of himself.   
  
"No!" Adrenaline, fueled by hated and the swirling emotions in his mind, gave John Carter the strength he needed to stand. He stalked out from behind the bookcases that had been his refuge, his own injuries forgotten, his own pain subsiding into nothingness, his leg suddenly strong enough to hold his weight again. "Damn you!" he cried out in rage.   
  
The two boys, who only seconds before had seemed so calm and powerful, simply stared. They had expected him to come sneaking out, dragging himself out of hiding, consumed by the terror they believed they had instilled in him. They were shocked to see him not only walking quickly, but walking straight toward them.  
  
"Damn you both!" Carter screamed again, wrapping his right hand around the top brace of a chair and dragging it along the floor. "No more! Damn you to hell, no more!"  
  
Carter picked the chair up with both hands and with it smacked Frank square across the temple, sending him to the floor in a heap.  
  
Joe stared down at his fallen companion, and then back up at the hard, steeled eyes of John Carter. The boy hesitated for only a second, but long enough for Carter to realize what was coming next.  
  
As the world around him slowed almost to the point of stopping, Carter spun, using the last of his adrenaline surge to grab the shades on the windows and yank them down, giving the snipers that he hoped were on the roof across the street a clear shot.  
  
He felt the impact of a bullet against his back, the deep burning sensation as it tore its way through his skin and deep into his body, and he cried out, falling forward against the window. He grabbed for the concrete sill and pushed himself upright again, determined not to let them see him fall now. He turned to face them, still using the window ledge for support, and vowed to stay on his feet as long as he possibly could.  
  
Carter barely felt the bullet slam into his shoulder, throwing him back against the block wall between the windows. His right leg went completely numb, shaking against the strain of holding him up, and finally gave up the fight. He slid down the wall for what seemed like an eternity, until he finally came to rest on the floor. He looked up at Joe as he prepared to fire again, watching as Frank struggled to his feet, clawing his way up a heavy wooden table.  
  
Carter sighed and resigned himself to the death that he knew was coming. Both boys had their weapons aimed directly at his head, and he knew he would not survive.  
  
Just as their fingers tightened on the triggers, Donnie appeared, throwing himself between the injured doctor and the two hysterical teenagers he had once called his friends. He locked his eyes with Carter's briefly before he turned to face the doctor's would-be murderers, and Carter could see the calmness and determination in them. He didn't even know the boy's last name, but he silently promised to never forget the color of his eyes, however much longer his own life would last.  
  
They were blue.  
  
As the first of the bullets hit the boy's chest, time rushed up around the room, tunneling its way past Carter's vision, and resuming where it had left off. Before Carter fully understood what had happened, Donnie lay on the floor beside him, shattered glass rained down around his head, and Frank and Joe lay, dead, on the other side of the room.  
  
It was over.  
  
Carter leaned his head back against the wall, listening to his heart beat and his breath rattle in his chest, feeling his blood pumping from the freshly ripped holes in his body, and watching Donnie's face a few feet away. He had no way of knowing how badly the boy was injured, but from the growing red stain in the carpet around him and from the blank look in his eyes, Carter knew that death was not far off.   
  
It was eerie to Carter, being here somehow again. Weak and injured, resting in his own blood, staring into the eyes of another, watching that person's life seep from them and onto the floor beneath, and being completely powerless to do a damn thing about it. He saw shadows dancing at the edges of his vision, and knew he didn't have much consciousness left in him. He pulled what little strength he had left in himself and pushed it all into his arms, determined to do for Donnie what he had so desperately wanted to do for Lucy.   
  
Moving his right arm slowly across the floor, he reached out. His eyesight growing darker with every second that passed, he searched the floor with his fingertips until they found what he was struggling for. As his fingers found the warmth of Donnie's and wrapped themselves around the boy's hand, the darkness overtook him, and his eyes fell shut.  
  
And then there was only silence.


	13. Harry Truman High School (outside) - 12:33pm

**Harry Truman High School (outside) - 12:33pm**  
  
"That's it!" Thomas cried out. "We're clear!"  
  
Peter and Mark were already running, leaping up the stairs and tearing through the front doors almost before the police had a chance to respond to the new developments and declare the scene secure. They were soon joined by the rest of the doctors, the EMTs and paramedics, and the teams of police that were converging on the building. The mass of people surged up the stairs, pausing for just the briefest of seconds when Peter and Mark threw open the doors to the library.  
  
The scene before them was horrific.  
  
Bodies were scattered everywhere; some shaking, some sobbing, and some forever stilled. Blood covered the floor and the walls, the faces and the bodies of the children in the room. A constant wail filled the air, echoed down the abandoned halls and back again, rising and falling in pitch as some voices dropped and others joined in.   
  
And every so often, young voices would rise above the others to call out in desperation "Dr. John!"  
  
The police and the medical personnel scrambled into action, bumping into and pushing past each other. The chaos that had reigned in the street with each successive evacuation was only magnified in the enclosed space, as doctors rushed to triage the victims as quickly as was humanly possible and EMTs moved to scoop up the red-tagged victims and bundle them off in the waiting ambulances.  
  
Peter immediately jumped into action, grateful for the detail with which the plan had been worked out while they had been waiting outside. He made his way across the room quickly, black tagging the dead, his eyes constantly scanning for the one face he had been waiting for two hours to see, praying with every breath that he wouldn't need to put one of those tags on him.  
  
As he placed the last tag on a teenager with a bullet hole in his forehead, he found him. He was leaning against the wall at the back of the room, eyes closed, arm outstretched to the young boy beside him.  
  
"Carter!"  
  
Benton fell to his knees immediately at the young doctor's side. "Carter! Carter, can you hear me?" The surgeon pressed his knuckles into Carter's sternum quickly, but the younger man didn't move. "Damn it, Carter! Open your eyes!" Peter pulled his stethoscope from around his neck and pressed it to Carter's chest, frowning at what he heard. A quick glance confirmed that a bullet had entered his chest, but near his shoulder, and on the left side. So why wasn't he hearing breath sounds on the right? "Damn! Carter! Help me out here!"  
  
"Peter!" he heard Mark call out right behind him. "How's he look?"  
  
"Not good. We need to get him out of here now," Peter answered as he gently lowered Carter to the floor, keeping one hand behind his neck the whole way down. Benton pressed the stethoscope to Carter's chest again, shaking his head. "Absent breath sounds on the right," he said to himself. "What's going on with you, Carter? Where's this coming from?" He looked Carter over quickly, trying to find the injury that was causing the breathing problems. One entrance wound in the chest, near his left shoulder. A bandaged graze wound to the same upper arm. Another rough bandage on an entrance wound in his right thigh. He couldn't even begin to calculate the blood loss. How much of it was his, and how much of it was the boy's?   
  
Almost as an afterthought, Peter called across his shoulder to Mark. "What have you got?"  
  
"Male, maybe 17, at least six GSWs to the chest and abdomen. He's on a chopper as soon as I get an airway."  
  
"Carter's going on the other," Peter returned, looking up at the paramedics who had just run over with a gurney. "Number 7 ET tube, now!" he barked. "Come on, people, move!" One of the paramedics quickly opened the red box and pulled out the sealed tube, then held it out for his partner, who had stepped up beside Benton and was moving into position to perform the intubation. "No!" Benton snapped, grabbing the kit from the surprised man's hands. "I'll do it. You, pack off those leg and shoulder wounds."   
  
The paramedics looked at each other and shrugged, but quickly changed positions, one handing the other the four-by-fours needed to staunch the bleeding from Carter's right leg.   
  
"I'm in," Benton announced within seconds. "Bag him, and let's pack him up. Carefully."   
  
Peter moved to the side, taking over the task of squeezing the oxygen into Carter's lungs while the paramedics rolled him onto a backboard, checking quickly for an exit wound from his shoulder.   
  
"Wait, wait!" Benton yelled, seeing a growing red stain on the back of Carter's shirt. "There it is! Damn it! Roll him so I can get a look!"   
  
The paramedics shifted position again, flawlessly, one supporting Carter's head and neck, the other taking over the task of bagging him, while Peter held Carter by his arm, lifting the back of his shirt and giving the wound a quick inspection. "Ok, occlusive dressing. We've got to move. We're taking too long." The paramedic at Carter's head reached down with one hand and grabbed the dressing. He handed it to Benton, who applied it expertly. They lowered Carter down onto the backboard, and Benton started rifling through the supplies, pulling out a large needle.   
  
The paramedics said nothing, just looked at each other, and then at the activity next to them, as Mark and the crew with him headed out of the library with the severely injured teenager.  
  
"Peter? You got him?" Mark asked on his way past.  
  
"Yes, Mark, I've got him. You go. We'll be right behind you."  
  
After inserting the needle into Carter's chest, Benton listened one more time with the stethoscope, nodding as he heard the young man's lungs starting to move air again. "All right, that's it. Let's go!"  
  
Peter resumed control of the ambu-bag as the paramedics lifted the backboard and then placed it on the gurney. They tugged quickly on the straps that held Carter down, and only a few seconds later were on their way out the door, heading for last of the MedEvacs on the ground outside.  
  
"As soon as we get in that chopper, I want two large bore IVs running wide open, Ringer's Lactate," Peter commanded on the way down the stairs. "We need to keep pressure on that leg and shoulder, and I want you to keep a close eye on his BP."   
  
"Sure, Doc," the paramedic he had brushed off on the intubation, McGinnis according to his name tag, responded. "We do know what we're doing, ya know."  
  
"You'd better," was Benton's only response.  
  
They burst through the front doors and out into the sunlight. People were shouting and crying and running everywhere, but they all seemed to know exactly where they were going and what they were doing. Peter gave them no more than a glance as they ran past and loaded Carter into the waiting chopper. The pilot had already started the rotors turning. As Peter and the paramedics climbed in and pulled the door shut, the pilot called out "Where's this one going?"  
  
"To County!" Peter called back. "Get us up!"  
  
"The other chopper's already going there! We won't be able to land!"  
  
"County's the closest, and we don't have time to argue! Now get us up!"  
  
The pilot shrugged and pulled back on the stick, lifting the chopper off of the ground gracefully. It flew out over the fire engines that most of its passengers had spent the morning hiding behind, leaving the bizarre circus of humanity at the school behind as it began its journey through the sky.  
  
Benton settled in beside Carter, breathing a bit easier now that they were en route. After slipping a pulse ox cable on his young friend's finger, he leaned back to wait. With Carter's airway preserved, IVs running, and major injuries assessed, Peter felt confident that his friend would indeed survive. Benton was already running the trauma in his head, planning the tests that he would order, and estimating time till transfer to the OR. A sudden rush of activity from the paramedics shattered his concentration.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asked of the paramedics.  
  
"His pressure's dropping," McGinnis answered. "Ninety-eight by palp and still falling."  
  
"What the hell?" Peter leaned forward to check the dressings on Carter's wounds, noticing the dark red stain that was seeping out from under the backboard and onto the gurney. "He's still bleeding! Damn it! We've got to roll him!"  
  
"Are you nuts?" McGinnis shouted, reaching forward to grab Benton's hands before he could undo the straps around Carter's chest. "You can't do that now! You'll delay getting him out of the chopper!"  
  
"You heard the pilot! There's another chopper ahead of us! He could bleed to death while we're waiting to land!"  
  
"Now look, Doc...” McGinnis began, but the pilot's voice interrupted, stopping the argument before it started.  
  
"Other chopper's waving off!" the pilot called back over his shoulder. "Patient expired! We're clear to land!"  
  
Benton and McGinnis locked eyes across Carter's still form, each trying to anticipate the other's reaction. "You hear that, Doc? He'll be downstairs in two minutes, tops! Wait till you're down there! It'll be all right!"  
  
Benton considered the other man's words for a second before finally nodding in assent. Only moments later, the chopper touched down on the roof. Peter flung open the door and jumped out, lifting the gurney and letting the wheels fall to the ground. As the chopper prepared to take off again, McGinnis leaned out and yelled to Benton.  
  
"Good luck, Doc!"  
  
Then he slid the door shut one more time, and the helicopter lifted off.


	14. County General Hospital - 12:39pm

**County General Hospital - 12:39pm**

"Peter!" Kerry called as she ran forward. "Peter, he's alive?!"

Benton nodded quickly, barely noticing the others who were surging forward and grabbing the gurney as they ran. "Multiple GSW! Upper left chest, upper left arm, outer right thigh, lower right flank! Open pneumo of the right lung! He's hypotensive! Pressure's 90 palp and dropping! Hypovolemic! Hypoxic! Sats are..."

Peter continued the bullet as they ran, but Abby didn't hear him. Benton's voice blended with Kerry's, Luka's, the howl of the wind, and the roar of the departing helicopter. When her eyes fell on his face, she heard no sounds at all.

He was here.

He was alive.

The nurse in her was assessing his injuries, his pallor, his responsiveness. The nurse in her was watching his chest rise and fall with every squeeze on the ambu-bag she held in her hand. The nurse in her pressed her fingers against his wrist, felt his pulse, counted his heartbeats. The nurse in her estimated how close he was to death.

The woman in her gazed at his face, grasped his hand in hers, and silently begged him to live.

* * *

  
The elevator doors opened, and the occupants burst forth in a rush, pushing the gurney toward Trauma Two as quickly as they could. Randi froze behind the desk when she saw them, covering her mouth with her hand as she watched them rush past her. Memories flashed through her mind of another time, not so long before, when she had witnessed the same thing: so many people, doctors and nurses, frantically fighting to save one of their own.

The same one.

Randi closed her eyes for a moment, and whispered a prayer that they'd be able to save him again.

* * *

  
Kerry swallowed the lump that filled her throat as she ran down the hall, one hand on the gurney that held her friend. She'd always known that there was something special about him, a depth of humanity that so few people seemed to have any more. She'd seen him put through so much by those around him, and by his own hand, but he'd always managed to make it through. She'd seen him live through things that would have killed anyone else, but he'd always managed not only to survive, but also to keep fighting.

As she looked down at his face, at the deep dark circles around his eyes and the deathly pale color of his face, she had to wonder if he could do it again.

How much did he have left?

Had his compassion finally cost him his life?

* * *

  
Luka had to force himself to concentrate on Peter Benton's voice.

If he allowed his mind to wander, he would get lost in all the questions. What did the world have against Carter? Why did these things keep happening to him? How could such a decent man have so many people try to kill him in such a short time?

He kept flashing back to a cold night in February, and another time he had stood over Carter on a gurney. The blood had been everywhere then, but this time there was more. Then, Carter had been able to wake up and talk to them; Luka doubted he'd open his eyes in the trauma room this day.

As he took a deep breath and pushed the gurney through the doors to Trauma Two, Luka had to wonder if Carter would ever open his eyes again.

* * *

  
"All right, let's move him!" Peter barked. "On my count! One, two, three!"

Moving as one, the doctors and nurses lifted Carter from the gurney he was on and laid him on the bed in the room.

Peter tore his jacket off in a rush, throwing it down in the corner as he continued to bark orders. "CBC, Chem 7, UA, EKG, cardiac enzymes, type and cross for six. Get X-ray in here. I want a cross-table C-spine, chest and pelvis, right thigh films, and a head and neck series. And get a Foley in." Everyone jumped into action, and Peter allowed himself a second to glance down at Carter's still face. "You're gonna make it, buddy," he whispered, squeezing the young man's arm. To the room, he shouted, "Somebody get me a chest tube tray! Betadine and sterile drape. Start a central line and hang two on the rapid infuser."

The nurses started moving about the room quickly, rushing to take vitals, grab equipment, and respond to orders.

"What about the source of that bleeding?" Luka asked from across the table, catching a glimpse of the blood-soaked gurney as it was pulled from the room.

"Give me a second," Peter snapped back, throwing the scalpel down on the tray next to him and grabbing the tubing. A few seconds later, he called out, "All right, it's in." As he pressed his stethoscope against his young friend's chest, he looked to Luka and asked, “How's that central line coming?"

"Almost in," Luka answered, glancing up at Abby. "Abby? Abby!"

Abby jumped slightly, jolted out of her silent thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Hang two units," Luka said, and Abby nodded, grabbing the bags of blood and attaching them to the central line. As she finished hanging them from the I.V. pole, Cleo burst through the doors.

"Abby!"

"What?" Abby asked, not bothering to look up from what she was doing.

"Abby, I need you," Cleo began.

"I'm busy!" she returned. "Find someone else!"

"No, Abby, I've got a 17 year old in active labor at 34 weeks, with a bullet in her stomach. I need you."

Abby looked at Carter, feeling herself torn. Should she stay and try to help and save her best friend's life? Or should she go and help a terrified teenage mother-to-be, one of the reasons he was lying there in front of her? She looked up at Peter, and saw in his eyes an understanding of exactly what she was feeling. She shook her head silently; she couldn't leave him now, not when there was such a great chance that she'd never see him again if she did.

Luka watched Abby from across the table. He felt a small pang of jealousy at her loyalty, but pushed it away quickly. Carter was her friend. Leaving him would have been hard for any of them at that point; it had to be twice as hard on her.

"Go, Abby," Kerry finally ordered, breaking the silence without looking up from attending to the bullet wound in Carter's thigh. "Cleo needs you. Go."

Abby's eyes widened, and she glanced back down at Carter again. Impulsively, she reached out and gripped his hand once more. "I'll be back," she whispered. Then she turned and followed Cleo out of the room, only pausing for a second in the door to take one more look at his face.

"All right," Peter said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "What's his BP?"

"80/50," Haleh answered.

"Crit?"

"30."

"Damn it!" Peter looked down, moving his hands up and down Carter's torso, trying to find the source of his continued bleeding. The sheets on the gurney were soaked through, and the blood was beginning to drip onto the floor. "Where the hell is it?"

"Could it be the one in his back?" Kerry asked.

"It's on the wrong side."

"An exit wound from his chest then?" Luka suggested.

"I looked. I couldn't find one," Peter answered. "Roll him, let me check again."

The doctors and nurses moved into position quickly and shifted Carter up onto his right side as Peter inspected the young doctor's back. "I don't see anything," he mumbled. "There's so much blood... I can't tell where it's coming from…"

"Somebody call for some X-rays?"

Peter nodded his head as he watched everyone else lay Carter back down and step out of the room. "Take them quickly."

The radiology tech lined up the portable machine for the first shot and glanced up at Peter, who had only taken a step or two away from the gurney. "Aren't you going to leave?"

Peter shook his head, his eyes focused on Carter's still form.

"Well, are you at least going to wear a...?"

"Just take the damn X-rays!" Peter commanded shortly.

"All right, all right. Shooting!" Moments later, the rad tech grabbed all of his slides, and started to push the X-ray machine back into the hallway. As everyone filed back in, he called out to Peter. "Have these for you in five."

"You've got three!" Peter answered, stepping back to Carter's side and leaning down once more to look for the elusive bleeding wound.

"Belly is clear," Luka announced, after doing a sonogram on Carter's abdomen.

"What about his heart?" Kerry asked, pressing her stethoscope against Carter's chest.

"No, it's not his heart. Internal bleeding isn't the problem!" Benton roared. "If it were internal, it wouldn't be all over the floor!"

"Peter, calm down!" Kerry snapped.

"What's the matter, Peter? Lose something?"

"Robert…" Kerry began, her tone one of warning.

"Why isn't he upstairs yet?" Romano asked, walking up to stand beside Peter.

"We've got a bleeder that we can't find," Benton answered reluctantly.

"Well, these might help." Romano held up the X-ray films he held in his hand, then turned and slapped them up on the light board quickly. Kerry and Peter walked to stand beside him.

"There's the bullet in his thigh," Kerry observed, pointing. "No fracture, no major vessels damaged."

Romano looked at the X-ray and nodded. "Good news times one," he said.

"There's the one in his lung," Peter said. "It doesn't look like it hit anything else, and it's just sitting there."

"Good news times two," Romano replied. "Our dear Dr. Carter seems to have gotten lucky."

"So where's the other one?" Kerry asked, her eyes darting back and forth between the X-rays.

"Where are the cross-table films?" Peter demanded, realizing that they were missing.

"Right here," Romano answered, pulling down the clear X-rays to make room for them.

"Oh my God," Kerry breathed.

"Holy shit," was Romano's reaction.

"Damn it!" Peter cried out. "It's in his arm! How the hell did it get there?!"

“Is it in an artery?" Luka asked from across the room.

All three returned to Carter's side quickly, and Peter lifted Carter's arm as gently as he could. He found it immediately once he knew where to look. There was a large hole, bleeding profusely, in the left side of his chest, directly under his upper arm. "What the hell... ?"

"It must have ricocheted," Romano said from across the gurney.

"Did it hit the axillary?" Luka asked.

Kerry glanced back at the X-ray. "I can't tell. It's possible though."

"I should have found that," Peter declared, berating himself for his oversight.

"Beat yourself up later, Peter," Romano ordered. "You, Kovac, pack that off. He's stable enough. We're taking him up right now."

Luka grabbed a pile of four-by-fours and pressed them against the side of Carter's chest.

"Kerry, call vascular. Have them meet us upstairs."

Kerry nodded and grabbed the phone as the doors to Trauma Two were slammed open, and the assembled personnel erupted into the hallway, heading back to the elevators.

Abby looked up from her patient when she saw them pushing Carter past the door to Trauma One. She closed her eyes and said a prayer, her mind repeating the same phrase over and over again. ‘Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me now.'

Again, she pushed her own fear away, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes. "It's all right, Kristin," she said to the girl on the gurney in front of her. "You're doing great. Just one more push, and you'll be all done…"  



	15. 12:46pm

**12:46pm**  
  
"You've got him from here?" Luka asked as the surgical staff rushed out to grab Carter's gurney and wheel him into pre-op.  
  
Peter nodded. "Yeah, I've got him."  
  
Luka nodded in return, and started to walk back to the elevators. He spun back around suddenly, and called to Benton's retreating back, "Dr. Benton! You'll keep us informed?"  
  
Peter turned his head, and a tired smile made its way across his lips. "I'll have one of the nurses call down with updates, and I'll call down myself when I'm done."  
  
Satisfied that Carter was in the best hands he could possibly be, Luka nodded firmly one last time, and walked back down the hall.  
  
Romano was waiting for Benton as soon as he walked through the doors to the surgical wing. "That was nice of you, Peter."  
  
"Yeah," Peter returned absently, quickening his pace as he headed toward his locker to prepare himself for surgery. Romano almost had to jog to keep up with him.  
  
"Just one little problem with it."  
  
"Yeah? And what's that?"  
  
"You're not going to be in surgery."  
  
"What!" Peter roared, stopping dead in his tracks and glaring down at the other man. "What the hell do you mean, I'm not in? He's my patient! I've been with him from the beginning! I stood outside that damn school all morning, waiting for him to come out! I brought him all the way from the scene, I ran his trauma, and I'm damn well going in that OR with him!"  
  
"Look, I don't know what you've got going on with Carter, buddies or blood brothers or lovers or whatever..."   
  
Benton raised his hand and his eyes flashed fire.   
  
"... and I don't really care to know. But, whatever it is, there is no denying that you're personally attached to him. There's no way I can let you operate on him right now."  
  
"Come on, man, that's bullshit! I've operated on him before!"  
  
"Did we have a choice that night, Peter? Think about it... did we really?" Benton's only answer was the same hard, cold stare as before. Romano sighed, and lowered his voice. "Peter, you're tired. Yes, you did spend the whole morning at the school. And you saw how many patients in the twelve hours before that? Performed how many surgeries? How many patients did you treat while you were there?" Romano paused to let his words sink in, and then continued. "You're more of a threat to him than a blessing right now, and you know that. Do you really want to be responsible for killing him because you're too tired to concentrate?"  
  
"I'm not that tired," Peter insisted. "And my patients are never in danger because I'm fatigued. You know that!"  
  
"Taking chances like that when we have no choice is one thing, Peter. But do you really want to take that chance with Carter right now? When I've called every surgeon on staff in to cover anything that might come up?" Robert paused and lowered his voice even further, making certain than no one would hear him but Benton. "Are you willing to risk his life just to prove your loyalty, Peter?"  
  
Peter lowered his head and let his eyes fall closed. After a few seconds, he shook his head and raised it again. "No."  
  
Romano slapped him on the arm, and almost smiled at him. "Go get some sleep. You look like hell. I've asked Dr. Anspaugh to assist." He paused again, to make certain that Benton was listening. "I'll take care of him for you, Peter."  
  
Peter snorted at Romano's back as the man walked away. "You'd better," he whispered before turning and heading for the waiting room to lie down on the couch.  
  


* * *

  
 **1:27pm**  
  
Abby walked up to the admit desk for the fifth time in thirty minutes. "Randi, is there any news from upstairs?"  
  
Randi shook her head sadly. "No. Nothing since the last time you asked. Still just that Dr. Romano started about half an hour ago."  
  
Abby sighed and turned away. "Thanks." She closed her eyes and rubbed them with her fingers, trying to clear away the exhaustion that was threatening to overtake her.  
  
"Abby!" she heard Luka call from down the hall, and she swallowed hard. The thoughts that had been running through her mind today had convinced her that she needed to talk to him, seriously, and soon. If John lived... But she didn't want to think about it right then. So she forced a smile onto her lips, and turned to face him.  
  
"Hey, Luka."  
  
"Are you okay?" he asked, the concern plain in his voice.  
  
Abby nodded slowly. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine. I'm just worried." She turned and started to walk down the hallway, not surprised to realize that Luka was following her.  
  
"How is she?"  
  
"Who?" Abby asked, confused.  
  
"The pregnant girl. Is she all right?"  
  
"Oh, her. Yeah, she is. They both are."  
  
"So the baby made it too?"  
  
Abby nodded. "A boy. Not a scratch on him. Her bullet wound wasn't serious, and Dr. Finch patched her up pretty easily. Her boyfriend got here about twenty minutes ago, and now they're in there trying to think of a name for him. I'm going to check on them now."  
  
Luka smiled, thinking back over the horror of the day and the small miracles that had happened along the way. "Life goes on, right?"  
  
"Yeah," Abby answered, pushing open the door to Trauma One. "Yeah, it certainly does."  
  
She walked in, watching the young people in front of her fawning over their newborn son. John had risked his life to save all three of them. There they were, celebrating the lives he'd protected, while he was upstairs fighting for his own. And they hadn't even bothered to ask about him. Abby tried not to be angry with them, but it was a battle she was finding herself losing.  
  
"Miss," the boyfriend, Daniel said.  
  
"Abby," she corrected him.  
  
"Abby... what's his middle name?"  
  
"Whose middle name?"  
  
"Dr. John. Do you know Dr. John's middle name?"  
  
Abby was overwhelmed with emotion. They'd been thinking about him the whole time. More than that... they wanted to know his name. She smiled at them, the first real smile she'd given anyone in hours. "Truman."  
  
She watched as they looked at each other, each shaking their head at the other. Abby almost laughed at the guilty expressions on their faces. "What's his last name?"  
  
"Carter. John Carter."  
  
"Carter," Kristin whispered. "Oh, I like that better."  
  
Daniel nodded. "So do I." He reached down and took the baby from Kristin's arms, placing him carefully in Abby's. "Abby, we'd like you to meet our son, John Carter Thaden."  
  


* * *

  
 **1:43pm**  
  
Alarms blared in the operating room. Romano glanced at Donald Anspaugh across the operating table, and shook his head at him.  
  
"Dr. Romano, pressure's down to 60!" Shirley called out in alarm.  
  
"No," Romano mumbled to himself, pushing himself to move even faster to repair the injuries that were threatening to kill his patient. "I will not lose this kid. Squeeze in two more units."  
  
Anspaugh raised his head in surprise. "Robert?"  
  
Romano looked up quickly, then back down at his work. "We will not lose our young Dr. Carter today, Donald," he said. "He saved a few hundred kids today, all by himself. And he's ours. He's a public relations dream. Nothing like a bonafide hero to help drum up some positive press for this place." With another quick glance at the older man, he added softly, "Besides, I've got a promise to keep."  
  
"He's in fib!" Shirley cried out as a new alarm blared.  
  
"Damn it, no!" Romano called out to anyone who could hear him.  
  


* * *

  
Peter shot up suddenly, swinging his long legs back to the floor and sitting upright on the couch he'd fallen asleep on. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, trying to focus. He glanced up at the clock; it read 1:46. He'd been asleep for just about forty-five minutes. He certainly wasn't completely rested; in fact, if anything he felt worse.   
  
So why was he awake?  
  
He stood and stretched, deciding to get himself a cup of coffee. He was heading for the coffee pot when the feeling hit him.  
  
Something was wrong.  
  
Having no idea what was going on, and not even fully understanding why, he ran out of the waiting room and down the hall, barreling toward the OR as fast as he could.  
  


* * *

  
Abby was walking down the hallway toward Kristin's room when it hit her: an overwhelming sense of dread. Something was horribly, terribly wrong. She stopped and turned slowly, looking back over her shoulder toward the admit desk.  
  
"Abby?" Luka asked beside her, noticing her sudden distraction. "Abby, what is it? What's wrong?"  
  
Randi was on the phone, but she wasn't talking, only listening. Abby watched as all the color drained from Randi's face, saw the shaking hand the clerk raised to cover her mouth.  
  
"No," Abby breathed. "No!" She dropped the blankets she had been carrying and ran down the hall.  
  
"Abby, what's wrong?" Luka called after her.  
  
She didn't answer him.  
  
She didn't bother with the elevators, but instead bolted up the stairs, pushing herself to run faster the closer she got to the surgical floor. The higher she climbed, the more she felt it. Her heart pounded in her chest, more from fear than exertion, and she heard blood rushing through her ears.  
  
'Don't let him die,' she prayed as she ran, pulling open the door to the surgical floor and racing down the hallway. 'God, please, don't let him die!'  
  


* * *

  
 **2:48pm**  
  
Anspaugh pulled his surgical cap from his head as he and Romano walked through the doors together. He smiled softly at Abby and Peter, who were standing just off to the side, and then reached out to lightly touch Romano's arm. "Good work in there, Robert."  
  
"Yeah, you too," Romano answered, pulling his own brightly-colored cap off tiredly.  
  
"Dr. Romano?" Peter asked anxiously, stepping forward as Anspaugh continued down the hall.  
  
Romano glanced toward the pair briefly, casting his eyes back to the floor without answering.  
  
"Dr. Romano?" Abby asked then, taking a few steps past Peter. "Dr. Romano?"  
  
Romano sighed and shook his head slowly as the doors opened again, and the gurney bearing John Carter's body was pushed through them.  
  


* * *

  
 **3:15pm**  
  
"I don't understand...," Kerry began.  
  
"Join the club," Romano answered. "Hell, I was there, and I don't understand it either."  
  
"Dummies," Frank interjected from the other side of the admit desk, not bothering to look up from the computer screen.  
  
"What?" Kerry asked him, leaning forward slightly.  
  
"Dummies. Dummy bullets. Cops have been using them for a couple of years. They're made out of rubber." The clerk finally looked at them, his face a combination of concern and certainty. "The idea is to incapacitate without killing. My guess is... these kids got a hold of them somehow, probably from the same jerk that sold them the guns, and they couldn't tell the difference."  
  
"But...," Dave stammered. "I mean, I saw him. I didn't see much, but I saw the holes in him..."  
  
"Incapacitate?" Romano asked bitterly. "You call Carter incapacitated?"  
  
Frank shook his head. "At close range, they can penetrate. And they can do damage. Just not as much as real ones would."  
  
"So why didn't we see them earlier in the day?" was Luka's question.  
  
Frank shrugged. "They reloaded? The guy that shot him hadn't shot anyone else? Take your pick. There's a hundred different possibilities."  
  
"So that's it?" Jing-Mei asked, incredulous. "He got shot with fake bullets and it was just dumb luck?"  
  
"Not fake," Frank answered. "Just not real."  
  
Luka nodded in agreement. "We shouldn't really ask how it happened," he said softly as he turned away from the group that had gathered to hear Romano's report on Carter's status. "There's nothing we can get from asking any more questions."  
  
Mark walked up to the desk just as Luka walked away. He had just finished finalizing the Death Certificate for the boy he'd brought in on the other helicopter, and though he knew Carter had survived long enough to be taken to surgery, he hadn't heard the outcome yet. "Kerry?" he asked, looking from face to face, trying to gauge the mood of the gathering.  
  
Kerry smiled through her tears and nodded her head. "He's alive."


End file.
